Thicker Than Water
by Adolescently
Summary: Teenchesters - Sam is 14, Dean is 18. It has always been Dean's job to protect Sam, but when a certain Yellow Eyed Demon disappears with his brother, he discovers there are some things he just can't shield Sam from.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi there! :) I'm Rochelle and this is my first fanfiction, so please be gentle with me. I hope to update this every week, and I'm not entirely sure how long it will be. I'd love to hear what you think, so feel free to drop me a review!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, not even a witty way to phrase this statement.  
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><p>It was early, too early for there to be any noise but the low rumble of the Impala as it ate up the road, putting more and more distance between the town the Winchesters had just left. It had been a simple case, a poltergeist that didn't take longer than a fortnight to get rid of.<p>

Dean was sitting in the front beside their dad, half asleep, having not yet had his usual morning coffee. In the back, Sam was sleeping. His limbs were splayed haphazardly across the seat, dark hair falling across his face. At fourteen, Sam hadn't quite caught up to his brother's height yet, but he had recently hit a growth spurt that left him constantly tripping over his own large feet - something Dean teased him about mercilessly.

John's gaze was fixed firmly on the empty road, but Dean always had an eye on his brother, and he could see that the nightmares were coming on. He had learned to spot the signs, the tell-tale crease of Sam's brow, the way his mouth tightened a little as if he was in pain. Then his brother started muttering, words that Dean couldn't hear but he knew wouldn't be anything good.

It wasn't one of the worst nightmares, as it turned out. Sam jerked awake a few minutes later, gasping and slightly wide-eyed but otherwise fine. Dean liked to make sure, though, and he twisted in his seat to face Sam.

"Y'okay there, Sammy?"

There it was. Bitchface Number Three, as Sam rubbed his forehead and glared at his older brother. "It's Sam. And I'm fine," he replied, still not totally awake as he scrubbed the sleep from his eyes and stifled a yawn. He didn't go back to sleep after a nightmare, Dean knew.

The talking had pulled John's attention from the road, and he glanced up to meet his youngest's gaze in the rear-view mirror. "You sure, Sam?"

Sam scrunched up his nose, then seemed to decide it was too early in the morning to insist too heartily and instead settled for a nod. This appeared to satisfy John, who nodded in return. "Alright," he said. "We'll stop at the next place, get some breakfast."

"And some coffee," Dean added quickly. "I need coffee."

John chuckled. "And coffee," he amended, turning his focus back to the road.

Sam didn't yet see the appeal of coffee, but he would never mention that to Dean. His brother had enough to tease him with for a lifetime without throwing that into the mix as well. If nothing else, it was good enough to keep him awake, and that was something he could do with right now.

He rubbed at his forehead again, the faintest trace of a headache ebbing at his concentration. He tried to remember the nightmare, something he didn't usually do. This one had been different, though. Sam couldn't say how, exactly. It was just _different_. It hadn't been like the others, with their average monsters and blood and horror. He tried to recall what it had even been about, but all he came up with was a flash of yellow.

Sam frowned, decided it was best to forget about it. He was awake now, after all. They had a job to do, a simple salt-and-burn in some backwater town. He hadn't really minded leaving the last place. The people there weren't exactly nice, although the kids at school had stopped bothering him after Dean broke that one kid's nose, which hadn't really been necessary but, well, Dean had a protective streak a mile wide. So for once, Sam hadn't kicked up a fuss about leaving. Maybe that was why he and John were on such good terms right now.

Apparently more time had passed than Sam thought, because when he dragged himself out of his thoughts he discovered they were pulling into yet another grotty-looking diner. Grimacing as he tried to pull his stiff limbs into motion, Sam opened the car door and stepped out, enjoying being able to stretch his legs for a while.

They headed into the diner, just the same as every other place they'd ever been to. There were only a few people there – a man sitting at the counter with a newspaper and a cup of coffee, a tired-looking couple and a young woman, sipping tea and frowning to herself. John slid into a booth, Dean beside him and Sam opposite them. The way they always sat.

A bored-looking waitress slumped towards them, her movements lethargic. She was clearly of the opinion that it was far too early to be awake, let alone moving. Still, the blonde flashed the three males a clearly forced smile. "Morning, guys. What can I get for you?"

Dean, busy looking the waitress up and down appreciatively, didn't answer. John rolled his eyes, not even glancing at the menu. "Three coffees, please," he requested in his gravelly voice.

Dean snapped his gaze from the waitress's chest long enough to hurriedly add, "Black!"

John nodded. "Three coffees, black. And I'll have a short stack," he continued, then paused to let his sons order.

Sam sighed. Dean's attention was still on the pretty waitress, and Sam would probably have been able to see the attraction if it weren't for this damn headache. It hadn't been this bad when he woke up, he was sure. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam decided it would be too much effort to try and order for himself. "Make that two," he replied, giving the waitress a strained smile. She scribbled that down, looking expectantly at Dean.

He didn't disappoint. Leaning across John, he flashed her one of his most charming smiles. "Yeah, three short stacks, please," he agreed. Then he opened his mouth again, looking like he was about to make some kind of tactless innuendo about things that definitely _weren't_ short that would have most of the girls they encountered drooling already. The waitress just gave a tight smile, though, and snapped her notepad closed.

"Will that be all?"

Dean blinked. "Uh, yeah. Thanks." The waitress turned and walked back to the kitchen, heels clicking as she went. There was the trill of a bell as the door to the diner swung open, another early-morning customer striding inside. He took a seat at the counter.

Dean turned back to see John looking amused as he turned to share the joke of Dean's blatant rejection with Sam. His amused expression quickly switched to a frown, though, as he noticed the pain etched into his youngest's face.

"Sam?" he questioned. "You okay?"

The fourteen-year-old glanced up to see both his dad and his brother looking at him, concerned. His pain must have been showing more than he'd realised. "Yeah," he replied, perhaps a little too quickly if the funny look Dean gave him was anything to go by. "Just, uh, tired." The ultimate excuse.

He received two unconvinced looks in return, and Sam was reminded that he was attempting to lie to two experienced con-artists, people who lied on a daily basis about money, jobs, reasons why people had to get the hell out of their house, _now_ – everything. He didn't back down, though, just dropped his gaze to the table and tried not to like he was in too much pain.

Frowning, Dean turned to their dad. "So, what's the deal with this case?"

John took the subject change. "Just a simple salt-and-burn. A Jennifer Mills, died in 1893. From what I can find, she was murdered but they never caught the killer. Doesn't sound like anyone really tried to, either."

Dean grimaced. "Alright. You know where she's buried?"

John nodded and opened his mouth to reply, but he was interrupted by the arrival of the waitress, carefully balancing plates. She slid them down onto the table and disappeared back behind the counter, grabbed three mugs and a jug of coffee. The radio on the counter suddenly crackled as she passed, then flared to life with the sound of a too-cheerful advert for allergy tablets. The waitress frowned at it in confusion.

One of the men at the counter looked up from his newspaper. "Funny, that," he murmured around his coffee. "The power's been acting funny all week, mind." The blonde nodded her agreement, flicked the radio off and headed back to the Winchesters. Placing the mugs in front of them, she poured out the coffee.

"What's been going on with the power?" asked John abruptly, never one to beat about the bush. It was probably nothing, but he always liked to make sure of these things.

"Hm?" The waitress finished pouring Dean's coffee and straightened up, causing Dean to pull his gaze once more away from her rather impressive chest. "Oh, that. Nothing serious, just lights going out, power cuts, you know the sort of thing. I think they're sorting out some new wiring round here, it's probably just 'cause of that."

"Oh, right." John nodded, tried for a smile. "Makes sense." It did, after all. John really hoped he was just being paranoid, but in this life, it usually was the worst case scenario. He took a sip of his coffee, watching as the waitress walked off purposefully to serve the man who had walked in several minutes ago. The man who was looking right at them. John raised an eyebrow and the man smiled, almost challengingly, before turning to the waitress.

"So, this chick. Where's she buried?" Dean asked, looking more awake now that he had a mug of coffee clutched in his hands.

And so the discussion of the next hunt began, the power shortages and the strange man at the counter wiped from John's mind to be replaced by more important things.

Sam really wished he could focus on what Dad and Dean were saying, because he _really_ didn't want to mess up on the hunt. That was the last thing they needed. His head was pounding by now, though, a steady rhythm that forced him to hold back a cry. He didn't care if Dean was looking at him funny, now – and he _was_. He rubbed his temples forcefully, trying to will the headache away. His coffee sat in front of him, steam swirling up into the air as the drink was left, forgotten.

"Sam?" John was looking at him, brow creased as Sam finally looked up. "You sure you're okay?"

No point in hiding it any longer. He'd just downplay it, then. "Just a headache. 'M fine," Sam replied, still rubbing at his temples as though sheer willpower would force the pain away.

"You don't look fine, dude," Dean said, eyebrows raised.

Sam didn't get much further than, "Well-" before a cry of pain tore itself from his mouth as a sharp jolt of pain shot through his head, fierce and horrible. It was like he was being stabbed from the inside of his skull, being set on fire, a thousand tiny white-hot needles... all of that pain, thrown together, it was too much, too painful, why didn't it just _end?_

And then it did, and Sam was drifting towards unconsciousness to the sound of Dean's alarmed shout.

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><p>Not long after that, Sam woke up. At least, he was pretty sure he did. Looking around as he sat up, though, it didn't take a genius to work out that this wasn't the diner where Sam had collapsed. This was... well, Sam wasn't sure where it was. It was a forest of some kind, he could see that. Sam was just in some sort of clearing, alone. He hauled himself to his feet, the pain in his head completely gone. That was something, he supposed, glancing over the clearing.<p>

"...the hell?" he muttered to himself, baffled. It was night-time, now, and Sam was pretty sure it had been morning when he had, for want of a better word, left. Not to mention that he had been, well, in a diner and not a _forest_.

Just then, a smooth, deep voice spoke up from somewhere behind him.

"Hello there, Sammy." Sam whirled around to face whoever that voice belonged to, breath catching in his throat.

Definitely not alone, then.

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><p><strong>Okay, well, there it is! I'm leaving for Tenerife today and I'll be gone for a week, so I'll update next Sunday - assuming people are interested, that is. Let me know what you think! :)<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Alright, thanks for the lovely response guys :) Hopefully this chapter is well-received too.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, not even a witty way to phrase this statement.  
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><p>Sam could do nothing but stare for several moments, taking in the sight in front of him. He didn't know what he had been expecting – a ghost, maybe a witch or something – but whatever it was, it hadn't been just a regular guy. Sure enough, standing before the teen was a man, smiling a toothy grin, average height with sandy coloured hair. But his eyes... Sam hoped to whatever deity was listening that he was just wearing contacts, because surely no human could have yellow eyes.<p>

Naturally, though, Winchester luck dictated that this man would be something supernatural. Sam flicked his gaze around the clearing, his hunter instincts taking over. He could practically hear his dad's voice inside his head: _Look for the nearest escape route, Sam, and make sure you always have a weapon to hand. _Swallowing, he reached into the waistband of his jeans, looking for the knife that always rested there, a constant reassuring weight. It wasn't there.

The man's smile never faltered. "What, no hello, Sammy?"

"It's Sam." The words tore themselves from his throat instinctively.

The smile turned predator-like. "Well then, _Sam. _Wouldn't you like to know where we are?"

"We're in a forest, I'd say that's pretty obvious," replied Sam. "I'd rather know how I ended up here. I was in a diner, last time I checked."

The yellow-eyed man snorted. "Nothing gets past you, does it, Sammy-boy? You should have your own detective show."

Sam was thrown by this behaviour, though he tried not to show it. If this man was something supernatural, why didn't he just attack him? Unless he was one of those creatures that liked to play with its food, so to speak. Repressing his shudder at that thought, he decided to buy as much time as possible, keep talking and try to come up with a plan. "Go on, then. Enlighten me, where are we?"

"Take a look around, Sammy." He wished the man would stop calling him that. It reminded him of Dean, and he didn't want to connect his big brother in any way to this unnerving probably-not-human person. "I'm sure it'll come to you."

A little reluctantly, not wanting to take his gaze away from the man in case something happened, Sam turned his hazel eyes to look around the forest. It did look familiar, now that he came to think of it. Maybe he had been here before...?

And then it hit him like a train. He _had_ been here before, on a hunt. A werewolf, to be precise. But that wasn't why Sam remembered it so well. Every detail of that hunt was etched into his mind, replaying the moment when the werewolf had lunged at Dean, torn his side with its claws, left him bleeding on the ground while Dad fired silver bullets at it. He could still see the blood on the muddy floor, hear the hitch in Dean's breath as he struggled to assure Sam he was fine, just a scratch, nothing to worry about.

Sam turned wide, horrified eyes to look back at the man. "Why are we here?"

The man shrugged, light glinting in the depths of his yellow eyes. "You tell me, Sammy. This is your party."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Sam, hating himself for the way his voice shook as he questioned the man.

"Well..." The man stepped a little closer to Sam, and he had to fight not to back away as he desperately wanted to. "We are in your head, after all."

Sam had the sudden urge to laugh with sheer relief. This was just a dream, then. He was safe here, this man, this _thing_ couldn't hurt him.

"One out of three, Sammy. Not bad. I can hurt you, see, but I'm not going to." Another grin. "And also? This isn't a dream. I'm here of my own accord... I forced my way into your head. Didn't you feel it, Sam?" The man stepped even closer, right into Sam's space, forcing him to take a step backwards. "The _pain?_"

The teen swallowed, fought the nausea down at the memory of the sheer agony he had experienced back in the diner. "What do you want, then, if you're not going to hurt me?" He wasn't at all convinced about that one – Sam seemed to have a target on his back that sent supernatural beings running to hurt him in some way. He'd rather it was him than Dean, though.

"To talk."

The answer, short and simple, took Sam by surprise. "Talk about what?"

"You. You're special, Sam. My favourite." The man threw his hands out, shrugging a little.

Sam stared. "What..." He swallowed, had to start again. "What do you mean, special?"

The man chuckled. "Don't you know, Sammy? Haven't you worked it out yet? What happened, that night when your dear, _sweet_ mother died?" He circled around Sam, like a hunter circling its prey. Sam stood frozen, eyes following the yellow-eyed man. He stopped directly behind Sam, whispered into the boy's ear.

"_It was because of you_."

Sam felt as though the words had knocked the breath right out of him. His eyes were wide, mouth opening and closing as he tried to say something, _anything._

It wasn't as though the thought had never crossed his mind before. After all, his mother had died in his nursery, above his crib. It wasn't the kind of thing that Dean and Dad spoke about, so that was about all he knew of his mother. But to have it confirmed, even by this yellow-eyed stranger, hurt more than he could say.

"Me?" The words were no louder than a whisper. He felt like his voice had been stolen from him, stolen like his mom, his childhood, his chance at a normal life.

A nod. "You, Sammy."

Sam's breath caught as a thought occurred to him. "You killed her?"

The man applauded slowly, sarcastically. "Give the kid a medal." His lips were twisted into a cruel smirk as he watched Sam, his gaze calculating.

"YOU KILLED HER!"

All of Sam's sense abandoned him as he threw himself at the man, fuelled by rage. This _thing_ was the reason his mother was dead, the reason his dad carted him and Dean all across the country to kill things that most kids only had nightmares about. He didn't care if he got hurt, even killed, his only thought was to end this monster's life, to get revenge for a mother he never knew. Red flooded his vision.

Yellow-eyes just laughed, though, grabbed Sam's wrists with a strength that couldn't have come from a human. He pulled Sam up so that his feet dangled inches from the floor, whispered into his ear. "I killed her, Sam. Because of you." He dropped Sam, who stumbled. "It's your fault. But, hey, if you don't believe me..." His expression turned triumphant as he took a step back. "Why not ask your brother?"

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><p>Sam sat up, gasping, to be confronted with Dean's face just inches from his own. "D-dean?" His voice shook, sounding like the scared child that had crawled into his big brother's bed after a nightmare.<p>

"Sam!" Dean gripped his shoulders tightly, as if making sure Sam was still there, still breathing. "Are you okay?"

His dad appeared at Dean's shoulder, thick brows furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sam swallowed and quickly cut in, "How long was I out for?" He glanced around, taking in his surroundings. He was lying on the hard floor of the diner, his brother crouched in front of him and his dad just behind Dean. The other customers were watching with something akin to fear on their faces and Sam did a quick mental check of them. No one looked particularly dangerous. There was one less customer than before, one of the men - the odd-looking one - having left, but that was nothing peculiar.

"A couple of minutes, max." That was Dean, sounding worried. If Dean sounded worried, it must be bad. Sam swung his head back around to face his brother and immediately wished he hadn't as he was hit with a wave of nausea.

He screwed his eyes shut, willing himself not to hurl on his brother. Slowly, he opened his eyes again. "What happened?" he asked once he was certain he could open his mouth without throwing up.

Dean shrugged. "Hell if I know, man. You just grabbed your head and started screaming until you passed out. The waitress went to phone an ambulance." It went without saying, of course, that John had stopped her. They didn't have medical insurance, and while they could fake it, they tried not to. Injuries were patched up by each other, it came with the job.

"You think you can stand, Sam?" That was his dad, voice gruff but with that undertone of worry that always set Sam on edge. Shakily, the teen nodded, grasping the edge of the nearby table with one hand and hauling himself up. He wobbled a little and in a flash, Dean was by his brother's side, making sure he didn't fall.

"I'm fine, y'know," Sam felt it was necessary to say. "It's probably just a migraine or something." Dean gave him an unconvinced look and his dad nodded, still frowning.

"Well, maybe this was just a one-off. If it happens again, we'll have to see a doctor."

"But Dad-" Sam started to protest, only to be cut off by John.

"Head injuries are nothing to mess around with, Sam." Chastened, Sam lowered his head and nodded, grimacing as the nausea rose again with the movement.

"Come on, boys," John said. "We're leaving." He led the way out of the diner, opened the Impala while Sam followed shakily with Dean at his side.

"You look really pale, dude." Dean was still looking at him, worried. "You need to get some sleep."

"I'm fine." Sam slipped into the back seat of the Impala, his thoughts drifting back to the yellow-eyed man. He didn't think he had imagined it – it all felt too real for that. Still, he hoped desperately he was wrong. He wanted nothing more than to just forget about it, but that wouldn't be happening any time soon. His thoughts were racing a mile a minute.

Dean snorted as he opened his door and slid into the front seat, beside his dad. "Dean's right, Sam," John said, glancing back at his youngest son. "You look exhausted." Sam frowned. That certainly wasn't like his dad. Usually, he would have Sam doing research while they drove although he supposed on an easy case like this, that wasn't really necessary.

"See? Your awesome big brother is right, as always." Dean tugged his jacket off, threw it at Sam. "Sleep."

Sam caught the jacket. It smelled of Dean, of old leather and gunpowder and that cheap aftershave he wore that he claimed the ladies just loved the smell of. "Jerk."

A smile played at his brother's lips, although the anxiety didn't quite leave his face. "Bitch."

Reluctantly, Sam lay down on the back seat, pulled Dean's jacket over him. He didn't think he could sleep, with all the thoughts whirling around in his mind. The Impala jerked into motion and the familiar low hum that was the soundtrack to Sam's childhood started up once more.

The yellow-eyed man wouldn't leave his thoughts. It was as if he was branded into his brain, taunting him. He hated this, this feeling of guilt and aloneness. It was his fault they didn't have a mom, his fault that they were living this horrible life, his fault. All his fault... wasn't it?

_Why not ask your brother?_

The man's final question haunted him as he tried to fall asleep. Did Dean blame him? Was it really his fault? A part of Sam didn't want to know, was terrified to ask. He had to _know_, though. Sam made up his mind that as soon as he and Dean were alone, he would ask his brother.

With that thought in mind, Sam finally drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

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><p><strong>Love it? Hate it? Let me know what you think!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys! I hope you like Chapter 3. Let me know!  
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**Disclaimer: You know what, just assume from this point on that I don't own Supernatural.**

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><p>Dean frowned, glancing over his shoulder at his brother. Even in sleep, Sam looked troubled, and Dean hated it. Hated that he didn't know what was wrong, didn't know how to fix it. Because that was his job, wasn't it? To fix things, protect his brother. He exhaled loudly and turned to glare out of the window.<p>

"Dean." His dad's voice was stern and Dean turned his green eyes to look at him. "Your brother will be fine."

He knew he was supposed to nod, to accept the assurance with his 'Dad's-always-right' attitude, but he couldn't. "Dad..." He threw another glance over his shoulder, reassured by the steady rise-and-fall of Sam's chest as he breathed in and out. "What happened to him?"

"I wish I knew, Dean." John glanced briefly away from the road, meeting his eldest son's eyes for a split-second before he turned away. "Sam was probably right, it was just a migraine."

"He was _screaming, _Dad." The sound was still ringing in Dean's head, a horrible sound that made Dean want to hit whoever it was that was hurting Sammy. Only he couldn't, could he? He couldn't hit Sam, and it was Sam's body hurting him. Dean looked back at his brother, unable to stop himself. He wanted to reassure himself, make sure that Sam was still there and not on the floor of some nasty diner, clutching his head and screaming in pain.

His dad shrugged a little, frowning. "He'll be fine. Right now, we have to focus on this hunt." And didn't that just sum up their lives perfectly? The hunt consumed their lives and Dean didn't so much mind missing out on his own childhood, but he hated that Sam had to be dragged all over the country when he clearly hated it so much, just wanted normal. Dean wished more than anything that he could give that to him.

A tense silence settled over the car until Dean finally grabbed a Metallica tape and shoved it in, just to fill the emptiness in the car. Sam made a tiny whimpering noise and wriggled in his sleep, clearly in the throes of yet another nightmare. Dean sighed and made to comfort his brother, reaching an arm to the back of the car to reassure him. "It's alright, Sammy," he murmured quietly, soothing. Sam fell silent again, though he still looked vaguely haunted. Dean didn't like it. Sam was supposed to brood and pout and occasionally treat them to one of his dimpled smiles. He wasn't supposed to look like _this._

Sighing again, Dean turned to glare out of the window. Fields flew past, the car rumbling down a dusty road in the middle of nowhere as they sped off to yet another hunt. Dean couldn't bring himself to feel as enthusiastic about it as he had earlier that day.

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><p>They drove for hours. The Metallica tape was changed to Led Zeppelin and then to ACDC, Dean continued to stare out of the window and still Sam slept on. John stopped the car, got some lunch from a gas station while Dean filled up the Impala. They ate while John drove. Sam's lunch went untouched. When Dean managed to wake him up, he was pale and quiet and merely huddled into his brother's jacket, picked at the limp chicken-and-mayonnaise sandwich that was handed to him. It was a mark of how ill Sam appeared that their dad didn't shout at him for wasting food.

Eventually, John pulled into a motel. It was cheap and tacky and called the 'Sleep Easy' inn. Dean's mind quickly put the two words together to make 'sleazy', which was exactly what this place was. Still, it was a roof over their heads and it wasn't the worst place they had stayed at by a long shot, so Dean got out of the Impala and helped Sam with his bags, ignoring his brother's quiet "I can do it."

"_Dean_-" Still quiet, but a little more assertive. Good enough.

"Alright then, princess." Dean grinned and tossed his brother's bag at him. Sam caught it and pulled it close to his chest, stumbling a little at the impact as their dad came back out.

He dropped a key into Dean's hand. "Room 203. Get the bags in, boys. I'll go and get us some food." And he was off down the road. They had passed a takeaway not long ago and Dean figured he was probably headed there.

"Let's get going, Sammy."

Sam flinched a little at the name. "It's Sam."

Dean looked at him carefully for a few seconds. "...Okay. Let's get going, _Sam_." His brother just nodded, suddenly very interested in his feet, and Dean snapped. That was it. "Get in the room, Sam. I'll get the rest of the bags." They had to talk about this. Dean was loath to induce a chick-flick moment but it would be worth it if it would get rid of this weird, quiet, almost submissive Sam - the one who didn't fight every order given to him.

Head still bowed, Sam accepted the key from his brother and headed off into the motel. Dean rubbed a hand through his stubbly hair and sighed. After a few moments, he moved to the trunk of the Impala and grabbed the rest of the bags, slamming the lid down in one swift moment. A twist of a key and the car was locked, and Dean turned and headed after his little brother.

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><p>Sam threw his bag onto the bed furthest from the door, knowing that one was his as always. He flopped back onto the thin mattress, glaring at the ceiling, and sighed loudly. This was it. His dad was nowhere around, he had the perfect opportunity to talk to Dean... and he had lost his nerve.<p>

What if Dean blamed him for their mom's death? Sam had never once doubted that he was loved and cared for – at least by Dean – but after speaking to Yellow-Eyes he didn't know what to think. He felt guilty, believing some supernatural being over his own brother, but the thought wouldn't leave him alone. _It was because of you_. The words still echoed around his head. It had been bad enough to hear them from that creature, but to hear them from Dean would kill him. He was much too scared to ask.

Not to mention he had been visited by Yellow-Eyes again while he slept in the car. This time, though, he had merely smirked at Sam, wanted to know if he'd asked Dean yet. When Sam snapped that he hadn't, the man had laughed. "Scared, Sammy?" His eyes had glinted as he taunted the teen. "You should be. You should be _terrified_ that he'll discover what a nasty little freak you are."

His thoughts were cut short as Dean entered the room, dumped the bags on the floor and kicked the door shut behind him. He threw a glance over at Sam, who was now sitting up, and then dug around in one of the bags, quickly producing a container of salt. He set about lining the windows and door with it. Once he was satisfied, he turned to look at Sam.

Sam stared at his brother, chewing on his lower lip. "Dean-" His voice caught and he had to stop, staring down at his lap.

"What the hell happened to you, Sam?" demanded Dean.

Not knowing quite how to respond to that, Sam said nothing. He wrung his hands nervously, his mind racing. _Why not ask your brother? _Sam forced his gaze up to see Dean looking vaguely irritated, probably by Sam's lack of response. The younger boy opened and closed his mouth, not knowing how to start. He licked his lips, which suddenly felt very dry.

"Sammy?" His brother's voice was softer, this time, as he sank down beside Sam on the bed.

_Ask him_. "Dean-" Sam blurted again, "Do you blame me for Mom dying?" The words came out in one huge rush, Sam desperate to just get them out, get them said.

Dean's expression would have been comical if it weren't for the seriousness of the situation. He stared at his brother in abject amazement, jaw hanging open a little. His green eyes were wide. Sam suddenly wished the bed would just swallow him whole, make him disappear. He didn't want to know, he didn't want to know, he didn't-

"What? _No!_" Then his brother's large hand was on Sam's chin, forcing his gaze upwards. Dean's stare was fierce but a little cautious. "Why would you ask that, Sammy?"

Sam ignored the question, his eyes wide. "Are you sure?"

"Damn right I'm sure! How could you even think that, Sam?"

Surprised by the strong response, Sam broke the gaze although his face was still forced gently upwards by Dean's hand. He wasn't quite sure where to go from here. He knew he could tell Dean anything, but then he remembered Yellow-Eyes' words. Nasty little freak. He didn't want Dean to think that about him. Dean was his favourite person in the entire world, even if he was a jerk at times, and he didn't think he could handle it if Dean found out about the creepy guy in his head and the fact that he was 'special', whatever that meant.

"I just..." Sam flickered his eyes back up to look at Dean, tentative. "I mean, she died in my nursery, right? Above my crib?" His voice was soft, not unlike the scared child who would go running to Dean, not their dad, for any kind of comfort.

"Sam-" He could've sworn that Dean's voice cracked a little, but that was ridiculous because Dean was the strong one. As they got older, Sam had realised that Dean wasn't perfect, but the hero-worship was hard to let go of. He admired Dean, was maybe even a little jealous of his brother because he was the perfect hunter, their dad's favourite. "What happened to Mom... It wasn't your fault, man, don't you _ever_ think that." Sam nibbled his bottom lip once more, still looking anxiously at his brother. "You were just a baby, Sammy. How could I blame you?"

Relief swept over Sam. "You mean it?"

"'Course I do, bitch." He still sounded confused, but there was utter conviction in his tone. Dean pulled him into a hug that Sam returned gladly. Hugs were a rare occurrence in the Winchester family. As a kid, Sam had been very touchy-feely and had craved physical contact. Now that they were older, he had grown out of that but right now he felt he had never been more pleased to receive a hug. His brother squeezed him tightly, as though there was no other way to assert how much he meant it than through touch.

"Jerk." He muttered into Dean's chest. His brother pulled away, chuckled.

"So Sammy, you wanna tell me where that came from?"

Sam looked at his feet again. "Not really."

"_Sam_..."

Thankfully, Sam was spared from having to answer by their dad's entrance to the room, elbowing the door open with two takeaway bags in his hands. Sam gave Dean a quick 'don't-tell-Dad' look as John glanced around the room, checking the salt lines, before his gaze landed on his two sons. Dean gave Sam a brief nod, eyes still bright with emotion that he quickly blinked away before Sam could identify it. Their dad looked between them, seemed to decide it was best not to ask. For once, he left well alone. "Hungry, boys?"

He dropped the bags onto the table, started pulling food out. Three burgers, fries, the usual kind of stuff they ate. Sam's stomach was churning. He didn't think he could force that greasy burger down his throat but Dean handed it to him with a firm, "Eat, Sammy." Much to his surprise, he took a bite and found that he was starving. Dean chuckled a little as Sam dug in.

"Feeling better, Sam?" That was John, from his spot on one of the ratty beds where he was looking through newspaper clippings from a long time ago.

Sam swallowed his mouthful. "Yes, Sir," he answered truthfully, thinking to himself that while Dean may not like chick-flick moments, he sure was good at them.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hi guys! I hope you enjoy Chapter 4.**

**Also, not many reviews last week. Does that mean you don't like it? I'm flying blind here, people.**

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><p>Sam really didn't want to go sleep.<p>

Sleep would, in all likelihood, mean another confrontation with the yellow-eyed man, and that was the last thing he wanted. Dean had been watching him carefully all evening as their dad disappeared into the bathroom to wash under the rusty-looking shower. Sam watched as his brother flicked through the channels on the cheap motel TV, trying to pretend like he hadn't been staring at Sam. The screen flickered a little and then died, and Dean sighed.

The sound of water pounding out of the shower filled the room for several moments. Sam was silent, absorbed in thoughts. Dean didn't blame him. So what did that mean? Was it really not his fault? And when he went to sleep, would Yellow-Eyes be there again? Questions swirled around in his mind. Sam wished he had answers to them. It wasn't right. Sam liked to have answers to everything, and usually the answers he didn't have he could research. He wasn't used to _this_.

_Research_. The idea caught in his mind, like a lone fish in a net. It would be easy. He could research creatures that had yellow eyes, that could get inside people's heads. It wasn't a lot to go on, but Sam was a good researcher, confident at least in that. And he had to know. It wouldn't be long before the Winchesters – or Sam and Dean, at least – had to go to a library to research for a case. He would do it then. He might have been desperate for answers, but Sam wasn't stupid enough to run off on his own into a strange new town in the middle of the night, trying to find a library. Dad would kick his ass, if Dean didn't kill him first.

Now he had to cross the next great barrier. Sleep. He didn't want to sleep, he wanted to fight it off like he did when he was a kid who had fierce nightmares that made him scream and sob and shake well into the night. The only way he would ever sleep was with Dean curled up next to him, protective and reassuring and a big, strong wall between Sam and everything that might ever want to hurt him. Now, though, that didn't happen unless Sam had a seriously vicious nightmare that had him screaming himself awake. Then the only thing that could console him was Dean, always Dean. Never their dad. He didn't understand, would just hand Sam a gun and tell him to 'waste the sucker'. He didn't get that some monsters existed solely inside Sam's mind.

John came out of the bathroom, dressed in sweats and towelling his hair dry. "C'mon, boys, bed. We'll make sure our facts are right tomorrow, salt and burn it tomorrow night. We'll be outta here in a couple of days, tops."

Sam's stomach twisted in terror at the mere thought of sleep. It was rapidly becoming a necessary evil, and Sam tried to tell himself he was just being stupid. Just because Yellow-Eyes had been there while he slept in the car, didn't mean he would be now. Dean was watching him in concern. Sam just nodded at his dad, grabbed some sweats and his wash-bag and went to clean up. He shut the bathroom door firmly behind him, turned to look in the mirror. His face was deathly white, and Sam realised the cause of Dean's concern.

He looked sick. Really sick. Dark smudges sat beneath tired eyes, making his skin look even paler by contrast. His head was ruffled and he and he pulled his shirt off he discovered that he still looked a little skinny from his latest growth spurt. He could see the outlines of his ribs. Not clearly defined, but enough to emphasise just how unhealthy he looked. Sam grimaced and looked away, grabbed his other shirt. He tugged it over his head. It was a little worn - it had once belonged to Dean - but it did the job. He slipped into his sweatpants and splashed water on his face. His reflection stared back miserably once more.

Filled with a sudden fervour, a need to make himself feel less _ill_, Sam grabbed his toothbrush and scrubbed his teeth a little harder than necessary. It made his gums sting, a welcome distraction from his awful appearance.

Sam padded out of the bathroom, dreading sleep. Slowly, silently, he slipped under the scratchy covers of his motel bed, the one furthest from the door, furthest from the potential threats. His dad and brother liked to be between him and the danger at all times. Sam was pretty sure that if anything attacked he could handle himself until they got out of bed, but he supposed old habits died hard.

Dean disappeared into the bathroom. The lock didn't click; they never locked the bathroom doors, in case there was an emergency and they had to get in or out quickly. Privacy was hard to come by in the Winchester family, but they did their best. Sam wriggled down further under the sheets, trying to get comfortable on the thin mattress. It wasn't the worst bed he had slept in, but it certainly wasn't one of the best, either. It was difficult to find a comfy position and his unwillingness to sleep didn't help.

Sighing softly, Sam resigned himself to what was sure to be a long night.

* * *

><p>"Hi there, Sam."<p>

The teen groaned and Azazel smiled. This would be fun. "Not pleased to see me, Sammy?" He glanced around. This time, they were on the shore of a lake. It was quiet, tranquil, and Azazel knew this was Sammy's 'safe place', his haven of thoughts not dedicated to hunting. Mentally congratulating himself on getting so far inside Sam's mind, he continued, "At least we're not in that _forest_ again... feeling a little less emo now, are we?"

"What do you want?"

Ooh, feisty. Yes, Sam was definitely his favourite. A skilled hunter and excellent researcher, with a little fire in the belly. He would be the perfect soldier – which was exactly why Azazel planned to give him a little boost, a head-start on the other psychic kids.

Ignoring the question, the demon grinned at Sam. "I assume you spoke to Dean?"

"Yeah." The kid's eyes were hard, cautious. They gave nothing away but they didn't have to. They were inside Sam's head, Azazel could find out whatever he needed in the blink of an eye. He liked Sam to feel at ease, though – as much as possible when talking to a yellow-eyed man inside his own head – and simulating a real conversation was definitely the way to go.

"And what did he tell you?" Slowly, the grin switched to a smirk as Azazel stepped forward, watched as the boy's jaw tensed, fighting not to take a step back.

"You're talking crap. He doesn't blame me."

Azazel chuckled. "Such fierce language, Sammy-boy. Are you sure he meant what he told you?" Another step, and this time Sam did move backwards minutely. Azazel watched in amusement as Sam forced himself to meet his gaze. So much braver than the last time they had spoken. He approved. "I mean, we both know Dean's lied before to protect you. Sweet,_ innocent _little Sammy."

"He wasn't lying." An immediate response, almost a knee-jerk reaction, Azazel noticed. He marvelled at the trust the brothers shared. It was a strong bond. It was a shame he would have to break it if he wanted Sam for his soldier.

Break it he would, though. He was slowly chipping away at Sam's psyche, he could tell. He just had to be patient. He could do that. He had been patient for nearly fourteen years. A little longer wouldn't hurt.

"Right. Dean _never_ lies," Azazel agreed with a nod, all wide eyes and false sincerity that Sam would see right through, as he was supposed to.

Sam narrowed his eyes at him. "What do you want from me?" Azazel could feel the carefully concealed anger, bubbling up inside Sam. It was as if it was lying just beneath the ground they were standing on, waiting to burst out and engulf them both.

It would probably be wiser to let Sam stew for a little longer. He didn't want the anger out too soon, didn't want it to erupt too fast. He had to go about this carefully, leave Sam on edge until he got careless, less guarded. "I'm not sure I want to tell you yet, Sammy." He grinned and made to ruffle Sam's hair. The kid pulled away, as Azazel had known he would. "I think I'll let you wait a while. Let you work for your answer." A grin. Azazel let his hand drop back to his side.

The kid scowled, dropping his calm façade for a moment. "So you're toying with me?"

"Harsh words, Sammy. You really think that's what I'm doing?" Azazel placed a hand to his chest, a stricken expression crossing his face. "I'm wounded."

"Right." A disbelieving snort. "So you're _not_ toying with me?"

"Oh, I'm toying with you alright." Azazel flashed the young psychic yet another grin. "But there is, shall we say, a _greater purpose _for it." At the boy's side, his fists clenched and unclenched.

"And I don't get to know what this... greater purpose is?"

Azazel nodded. "Got it in one, kid. I'll keep up the visits, though. I do enjoy our little chats, don't you?"

A bitter laugh from Sam. "Yeah," the kid replied, a little breathlessly. "They're just great."

"I'm glad you think so." Azazel stepped forward. "I'll be seeing you soon, Sammy."

Then he left.

* * *

><p>Sam sat up, gasping silently. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly and he felt cold all over, like he had been sweating in a fridge. Now that was a weird thought.<p>

The room was dark, the kind of dark that only arrived in the middle of the night when it seemed like nothing else existed. Sam knew differently, though, knew all about the monsters that lived out there in the darkness. Pointedly not thinking about that, he wondered how long he had been asleep for. He could hear Dean and Dad in the other beds, their breathing a steady reassurance that calmed the frantic beating of his heart.

The urge to crawl into Dean's bed and huddle up beside him was almost overpowering, but he resisted. He had bothered Dean enough with his problems, he ought to leave his brother be for a bit.

Sam shifted, pummelled his pillow. He couldn't go back to sleep even if he'd wanted to. He felt wide awake, all of his senses hyper-alert. That just left him alone with his thoughts, though, and that was always dangerous territory.

His last conversation with the yellow-eyed man was still ringing in his ears. That _thing_, the thing that had murdered his mom, was just casually slipping into his head while he slept to have _little chats_. It didn't bear thinking about, and yet that was the only thing on Sam's mind. He sighed, flopped his face into the flat motel pillow he had been supplied with as if trying to smother himself. It stank, a horrible musty smell, and he pulled away with a wrinkled nose.

Suddenly, Sam felt like crying. He didn't know what to_ do_. He could pretend to himself that he had it all under control, but when it came down to it, there was no denying that a yellow-eyed monster was hopping in and out of his head like it was an elevator just there for his convenience. He didn't know what do, didn't know what he _could_ do about this. This was the thing that had killed his mother, and he was powerless to stop it invading his mind, his privacy, the_ only place _he was safe. Only it wasn't safe any more, was it?

Overwhelmed, Sam was irritated to find tears prickling the back of his eyes. The urge to run, sobbing to Dean and bury himself in his brother's strong embrace was strong, too strong – _no._ He wasn't going to pull Dean into this. He blinked furiously, screwed his eyes closed and tried desperately not to fall asleep.

He stayed that way for the entire night.

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><p><strong>Aw, poor Sam. Stay tuned for next week, though, because that's where the action really starts :) Let me know what you think!<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hey guys! I hope you enjoy this chapter, I certainly enjoyed writing it :) Let me know what you think!  
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><p>The next few weeks passed by, and still the yellow-eyed man persisted. The days all blurred together, one huge nightmare. Sam constantly fought sleep, hating the confrontations that occurred when he did. And Dean wasn't an idiot. Sam knew his brother had figured out something was wrong, but he didn't know what. How could he? Sam was willing to bet that a yellow-eyed monster harassing his little brother inside his own head wasn't high on Dean's list of 'What Could Be Bothering Sam'.<p>

It wasn't that he didn't want to confide in Dean. He did. But he was just too scared. His brother had said he didn't blame Sam for Mary's death, but maybe... if he knew the full story... he might. The thought made Sam's insides freeze in terror. He couldn't take it if that happened.

Yellow-Eyes had been visiting him every time he slept, and he couldn't handle it any more. He was sleep-deprived – his mind felt like cotton, his limbs were like lead, making his movements sluggish and lethargic. John had shouted at him more times than he could count to 'get his damn head in the game and focus on the hunt'. Sam's attempts at research had turned out absolutely nothing. He had hit a brick wall.

He was trapped.

Sighing, Sam tossed his duffel bag into the back of the Impala. They were moving on again, this time to hunt a werewolf. It was hot today, mid-July (they had hit the summer break now, which saved having to find him a school), but Sam was wearing long sleeves. He had bruises on his wrists that could only have come from being grabbed by Yellow-Eyes in one of his most recent visits. He seemed to be getting stronger. Sam didn't want Dean or his dad to find out.

Sam slipped onto the back seat, running a hand thoughtfully over the smooth leather as he chewed on his lip worriedly. Dean swung into shotgun, Dad beside him in his own seat. Dean glanced over his shoulder at Sam.

"Alright there, Sammy?"

He didn't try and correct him, convince him that his name was _Sam_, not Sammy. It wouldn't help, and anyway he was already used to being called it by the yellow-eyed man. He nearly shuddered as he realised that every time Dean called him Sammy he could hear the smooth, taunting voice of Yellow-Eyes, an underlying threat.

He _hated_ this.

Outwardly, though, he just forced a smile – and he knew Dean could tell it was forced, but he didn't care – and nodded. Dean frowned and exchanged a worried look with their dad. Well, Dean looked worried; John looked more irritated, but Sam imagined that if he tried really hard he could see a little concern in his father's face. The older Winchesters appeared to have an entirely silent conversation that would have had Sam huffing about being left out under normal circumstances. Right now, though, he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. His dad's gaze seemed to soften just a fraction as he glanced back at his youngest, and then he turned back to the wheel.

The Impala pulled away from the latest crappy motel. Sam leaned his head against the cool glass of the window and settled in for a long drive.

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><p>They eventually made it to another motel, a carbon copy of all the others they had stayed at over the years. "Okay, boys, tonight's a full moon, so we're going in for the kill," John instructed as he stepped on the brakes.<p>

"Yes, Sir," came the two simultaneous replies, albeit Sam's a little quieter than Dean's enthusiastic response. The brothers grabbed their bags, headed into the motel. The same routine as they always went through.

Sam's head was throbbing a little. _Not tonight, please not tonight. _He didn't want to have to deal with a surprise visit from Yellow-Eyes while they were trying to hunt a werewolf... that would almost certainly get him killed, probably Dean and John too.

In the motel room – dark and dingy and smelling a little of cigarette smoke – they went through the plan for that night. They covered every corner, made sure they were all prepared to take down this thing. Sam forced himself to concentrate, to push the pain down, down, down but that just made it flare up more fiercely than ever and this time he couldn't hold back his gasp. His hand flew to clutch at his head.

The lights flickered, and distantly Sam found himself thinking about the terrible wiring in this place before the pain became too intense to think at all and someone was screaming so loudly that it hurt his ears but it couldn't be him, could it? Suddenly Sam realised that it _was_. His voice was hoarse and pained and his throat felt raw but he couldn't seem to _stop_. White dots danced tantalizingly in front of his eyes.

Dark. Light. Dark. Light again. The lights flashed on and off, going crazy and Sam was vaguely aware of Dean's alarm, borderline panic as he demanded to know, "What the hell's goin' on?" before he couldn't hear anything more. A ringing noise filled his ears, which he was quite certain had to be bleeding by this point because surely no one could be in this much pain and not be dying on the floor.

He had just enough time to think_ Oh no, not again,_ before he was engulfed by the darkness.

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><p>Sam groaned as he came around. This wasn't like the first time Yellow-Eyes had forced himself into the teen's head, where the pain had been gone – this time, it was still there, a persistent throbbing that made Sam want to dig into his head until he found the cause of the pain and then pull it out. Only they were already <em>in<em> his head, weren't they?

"Sorry about the pain, Sammy. It's just a side effect, you understand."

Blearily, Sam looked up at the man, suddenly becoming very aware of his surroundings. He was in what looked like an abandoned warehouse and as he went to move, he realised he was tied tightly to a stiff wooden chair, ropes binding his wrists and ankles and probably leaving marks. There was a chain wrapped around a leg of the chair, keeping it from moving too far away from the wall.

Huh. This was a new one. Sam was fairly certain he didn't have anything resembling a _warehouse_ in his head.

Finally, his brain managed to process what Yellow-Eyes had just said. "Side effect, right. You could just stop forcing yourself inside me, you know."

Yellow-Eyes raised an eyebrow, grinned. "Oh, Sammy, we're not in your head this time." He sounded delighted, amused. Sam didn't see anything funny about this nightmarish situation.

"_What?_" In his surprise, the words came out a little louder than intended and his voice cracked slightly, throat still hoarse from screaming. Wincing at the grating sensation as he spoke, Sam tried again. "What d'you mean?"

"I mean, we're not in your head." The yellow-eyed man was leaning casually against the wall now. He was wearing the same clothes he always was, a nondescript pair of jeans and a plain shirt with a brown jacket over it. "We're both here, Sam. Flesh and blood." His eyes glittered with wicked, undisguised glee, and he said the word _blood_ with the tone of someone knowing a hilarious joke that only they are privy to.

Sam felt the panic well up inside him, a huge bubble just waiting to burst. It took him several moments to form any more words. Even then, he could only manage a scratchy, "Why?"

"Why? Oh, I'm hurt, Sam. Hurt. Don't you want to talk to me?"

"You know what I mean," Sam snapped harshly. "Why are we here," - wherever _here_ was - "and not inside my head?"

The man, arms folded loosely across his chest, shrugged. He seemed to be preoccupied, watching a large spider skitter across the floor, long legs splayed grotesquely as it moved. A frown adorned his features and he moved faster than Sam could have imagined, stepped on the spider with the ball of his foot and twisted. "I hate spiders," said the man. Sam wrinkled his nose, then quickly noticed he was being distracted.

"Answer the question."

Yellow-Eyes sighed, as though Sam was doing him a great injustice by asking such a thing of him. "We are here, Sammy-boy, because I have decided to step up my game." He grinned, though it looked more like he was baring his teeth, and leaned towards Sam. "Aren't you excited?" It was nearly a whisper, but it spoke volumes to Sam of the dangers to come.

This was bad. This was so very, very, ridiculously _bad_. He had to get away, he had to escape now. Sam wasn't stupid, he knew when the time came to flee rather than fight, and that time was now. His eyes darted wildly around the warehouse. It was old and dirty, the walls lined with near-empty shelves caked in dust. The occasional cardboard box lay strewn across the floor, and there was only one door, a rickety old thing that looked like a couple of good kicks would do it in – assuming Sam could get that far, that is.

"You look frightened, Sam." Frightened didn't begin to cover it. Sam desperately wished he could be brave like Dean, spit out some sarcastic comment as easy as breathing and act like there was nothing in the world that scared him, but he just couldn't. Sam tried to breathe deeply, keep calm. It would be okay. Dean and Dad were probably looking for him right now. He would just work on staying alive until then, maybe try and form an escape plan. He wondered how long he'd been out for. Judging from the dim light streaming through the grimy window in the door, it was late evening, nearly night. Maybe he hadn't been gone too long, then.

"Don't you feel like sticking around for Phase Two of my plan?"

If only Yellow-Eyes would just _shut up_ for a minute, let Sam think. "Can't say that I do," Sam answered, rather pleased with how level his voice sounded.

"That's a shame." The man stepped closer, tilted Sam's chin so that the teen was looking directly into the yellow depths of his eyes. The colour danced and swirled in a way that might have been beautiful if it wasn't so disturbing. "Because you, Sam, are going to play a _very_ important part in this." He let go, then, let Sam's head drop back down, but Sam made himself maintain the eye contact, growling low in his throat. Like hell he was. This thing wasn't going to make him do anything. He wasn't a hunter for nothing. "You might say you have the lead role, in fact," continued Yellow-Eyes, seemingly oblivious to Sam's thoughts.

Sam swallowed, hating how raw his throat felt – like he had been gargling nails. He tried to ignore it, tried to focus on the problem at hand.

"Lead role? What are you talking about?" He glared at the man. Couldn't he ever give Sam a straight answer? "And how did I even get here?"

The man smiled indulgently, like a father allowing his child to kick up a fuss over something unimportant. "I've told you before how you're special, haven't I?" Jaw clenched, Sam nodded mutely. "My _favourite_?" Another nod. Favourite. That implied that he wasn't the only one who was 'special'. Were other people being visited by Yellow-Eyes, too? Sam hoped not. He hated the thought of anyone having to suffer the same pain he did when the man forced his way into his head.

"Well, since you're my favourite, I've decided I oughta give you a little head-start on the others." A pause as he considered Sam's other question. "As for how you got here, well, that was a simple summoning spell I stumbled across. A useful little thing, it must be said."

Wait, _what_? Head-start? Others? Summoning? Not knowing where to start, he blurted out, "What others?" and winced as his throat screamed in protest.

Yellow-Eyes waved a hand dismissively. "They are not of importance. Just some of my other children." Other children? He made it sound like Sam was his son. He shuddered at the mere thought of being related to that thing. He wondered what that meant, though. Had other children had their mothers killed by this thing? Were they all hunters? Sam narrowed his eyes, but he knew that was as good an answer as he was going to get for now. Yellow-Eyes was a walking riddle.

He cleared his throat again, trying to rid himself of the pain. It just made it worse. Talking hurt, but he had to know. "What about the... head-start? What does that mean?" He didn't want a head-start on any other children, he didn't want to be special, to be the favourite, he just wanted to be _normal_. Why didn't the world understand that?

The man just chuckled, a deep sound that sent involuntary shivers down Sam's spine. The ropes rubbed on his wrists as he moved, and he grimaced. He was tied up tightly, and with Yellow-Eyes watching his every move there would be no way to escape. A wave of hopelessness swept over him, but he quickly squashed it. He could do this. He just had to focus.

He swallowed again, winced for what felt like the hundredth time. Yellow-Eyes smirked. "You know, Sammy, looks like you're in a bit of pain there."

Determined not to show any more weakness in front of him, Sam hurriedly schooled his features into what he hoped was an 'after I get out of these ropes, I'm gonna kick your ass' look.

"You're probably quite thirsty," continued Yellow-Eyes, ignoring Sam's change of expression. "In fact, a nice drink is just what you need to soothe that _throat_ of yours..." And then there was a knife in the man's hand, quickly whipped from his belt. Sam's eyes widened fractionally, utterly baffled.

The man rolled up his own sleeve, let the knife rest on the lightly tanned skin of his arm, the blade sitting at the crook of his elbow. His eyes glimmered dangerously. "Thirsty, Sam?"


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thanks for the great reviews last chapter! :)** **I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. Let me know!  
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><p>Slowly, things settled down. The lights stopped flickering and silence descended over the room. Dean and John stared at each other, but the moment was broken when Dean suddenly gasped, "Sam!" and scrambled out of his chair, hoping he would find his brother simply lying on the floor out of sight.<p>

Sam wasn't there.

"Sam!" Dean called, louder this time even as his heart sank. He knew Sam was no longer in the motel room, but it didn't stop him looking.

He tore through the room, ripping lamps from sockets and tossing chairs and bedspreads aside as if one of them would reveal Sam with a triumphant fanfare. No such luck, however. His brother was gone. Well and truly gone. "Sammy?" he called one more time, just in case.

Nothing.

Whilst Dean rampaged through the room, John remained seated at the table, a map still spread across it along with various scraps of paper, notes scrawled haphazardly across them. His expression was unreadable, dark eyes following his older son's progress through the room.

"_Dammit!_ " A chair went flying into the wall, splintering wood. There was a thump from the room next door, a shout for them to 'shut the hell up, people are try'na sleep'. Dean ignored them. Absently, John wondered how much the motel manager would demand for the damage, whether he had hustled enough money from the last pool game in a cheap bar to cover the cost. It didn't matter now, though.

Sam was their priority.

"Dean." His voice was hard, level. The eighteen year old whirled around to face him. "He's not here, Dean."

His son nodded, ran a shaky hand through his stubbly hair. "Then where the hell is he? How can you just sit there?" he added, his voice furious. John knew it wasn't anger at him, though. It was anger at whatever had taken Sam from right under their noses. Dean was just lashing out, mad that he hadn't been able to protect Sam, and John was the closest target. Dean walked slowly back towards the table, towards John, then froze. He sniffed. "You smell that?"

John wanted to scream. He wanted to yell, to demolish everything in sight until his baby (and he knew Sam would sulk if he knew John still thought of him as his baby, but he didn't care because he _was_) was given back to him. His last gift from his beloved Mary, John wanted him back, right now. What he didn't want to do was waste his time. But Dean cared far too much about his brother to waste time and he was a damn good hunter in any case. He wouldn't be distracted by anything that he didn't think important. So John forced his calm mask to stay in place and inhaled deeply through his nose.

Dean had returned to the table by now, was investigating the chair where Sam had been sitting when all had hell broken loose. John recognised the smell just as Dean scooped up a shaking handful of unmistakable powder and let it cascade through the gaps between his fingers. Together they spoke, and their voices were filled with a grim dread, the kind of dread that came from knowing exactly what they were dealing with - exactly what they were up against.

"Sulphur."

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><p>Sam stared at Yellow-Eyes in bewilderment. The knife glinted even in the dim half-light, seeming to taunt him.<p>

"Thirsty?" the teen repeated, trying to sound incredulous even as he knew he sounded a little hysterical. "Not for any drink you're offering." What was going on? Wildly, Sam wondered if Yellow-Eyes planned to poison him.

Yellow-Eyes smirked. In the blink of an eye, he had slid the knife across his arm, the motion smooth and sharp. Immediately, blood welled up, a dark crimson. The lack of light made it seem almost black, and it sent a shiver down Sam's spine for a reason that he couldn't quite think of. It was like a long-ago memory, one of those recurring dreams someone suffers in their childhood that is never far from their mind.

It was familiar, far too familiar.

But then, of course it was familiar. It was just blood. Sam could cope with blood. In their lifestyle, blood was a regular occurrence. He pushed down the feeling of different-nasty-_wrong _and stared at Yellow-Eyes.

"Still hasn't clicked, has it, Sammy-boy?" The man squatted down in front of the teen and brandished his arm, dripping blood onto the dirty floor. He showed no sign of having felt any pain. The knife hung by the man's side, gripped loosely in his hand. Sam refused to take his eyes from it, watching as the dark droplets fell and splattered on the floor. Was Yellow-Eyes going to stab him, or something? He didn't get it.

Bright, too-white teeth were bared at him in a grin. The man squeezed the flesh around the cut, forcing more blood from it. He held it up to Sam's mouth, which was firmly closed. "_Drink it,_" he whispered forcefully, and suddenly Sam's jaw was pulled open, held there with superhuman strength despite all of his struggles. Sam made a desperate sound, tried to jerk away even though he knew the ropes were too tight to allow even the slightest movement. The chair scraped on the floor, the noise grating to Sam's ears. It felt like all of his senses were hyper-alert.

Then the first drop of blood landed on his tongue, and Sam stilled. Cold horror swept over him. _Blood_. He was drinking blood. Worse, he was drinking the blood of a monster. The thought made him renew his efforts and he went into a frenzy, his only thought to get the hell away right now. The chair scraped again, a tiny movement caused by his panic. It pulled taut on the chain attached to the wall, and Sam knew he would get no further. Hopelessness swept over him, almost suffocating in its suddenness.

More blood. More and more and more and it was only a mouthful, yet it felt like so much more and then it was sliding down the back of his throat, silky smooth, and Sam swallowed instinctively. It tasted coppery and metallic and a little bit like death.

Yellow-Eyes pulled away, looking satisfied. He wiped the last of the blood onto Sam's lip. The teen's tongue twitched, wanting to lick it, but Sam resisted. No more.

"See, now? Don't you feel much better?" _God_, but Sam hated this creature. Hated it like he had never hated anything before in his life. Rage he had never felt before welled up, clawed at his insides, and he was hit with the sudden urge to attack the yellow eyed man, even if doing so would be utter suicide.

Words failed him, fury clouding his mind. Eventually, he managed to croak out, "You son of a bitch," and even then it sounded a lot weaker than he had wanted it to if Yellow-Eyes' chuckle was anything to go by.

"Now, now, Sammy, there's no need for profanities." The man straightened up, his eyes never leaving Sam's face. The constant attention made him uncomfortable, like he had been ripped open and spread out for all to see, every inch of his soul bared to this monster. He loathed it. "This will help you, in the long run. I know what I'm doing." And that was exactly what terrified Sam.

"How the hell is drinking blood going to help me?" The blood that had been wiped there remained on Sam's lip, now slightly tacky from being exposed for so long but Sam left it there, refusing to touch it. "I don't _need_ help," he added when Yellow-Eyes didn't reply, "Especially not from you."

"Oh, you are good, aren't you? So independent." Sam wasn't sure if Yellow-Eyes was being sarcastic or not, and he wondered what exactly that said about them. "I think I'll leave you to it for a while. I have some more things to attend to." A smirk danced across the man's lips. He almost looked like he was daring Sam to escape.

He didn't get a chance to respond. One blink and Yellow-Eyes was gone, leaving Sam tied to a chair with a taste in his mouth that felt an awful lot like shame.

* * *

><p>"A demon, Dad. A freakin' demon has Sam!" Dean's green eyes were wide and horrified and staring right into John's soul. Feeling very old, John ran a hand down his face.<p>

"I know."

Of course he knew. It all made a lot of sense now, the way Sam had been acting the past week or so, and John rather wished that it didn't. The headaches, the bad dreams, the passing out in the diner... Suddenly, he wasn't in the motel room any more. He was at a cosy house back in Lawrence, Kansas, talking to a lady who hit him with a wooden spoon whenever he swore. Talking to a pyschic who told him things he needed to hear, even if he didn't want to. A lady who had taken one look at Sam, just a tiny baby cradled in his arms, and told John that his youngest was in danger.

Missouri Moseley. She had known about everything. About Sam and about the demon and about what happened to Mary. John resisted the urge to punch the faded yellow motel wallpaper.

"You _know_?" Naturally, that wouldn't pacify Dean - why should it? It just angered him further. "What the hell are we going to do about it, then?" His son was pacing the room and any minute now he was going to realise that the salt lines were still intact and then he would work out that it wasn't just a regular demon they were dealing with, here, and then the whole thing would come pouring out.

And would that really be such a bad thing?

Dean deserved to know. The demon had killed his mother, after all, had destroyed his life along with Sam and John's. And Sam had always been his responsibility, he ought to know what was going on... and yet a part of John wanted to hold his sons close like he had the night their world had changed forever, to wrap them up safely and not let them go. He didn't want to burden his sons with the same knowledge he had. He didn't want them to be in danger.

In this life, though, danger was inevitable. They just had to get Sam out of it as quickly as possible. "We look for him."

"How?" The word was flung out with no less anger than anything else Dean had said, but it was bordering on desperation now, too. "A demon took him, Dad. He could be anywhere."

John clenched his jaw. Dean was right, and deadly serious. He didn't fuck around when it came to Sam. They needed help with this."Time to call in a few favours, I think." He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, flipped it open as Dean looked on with a dark expression.

He scrolled down his contacts. Bobby was one of the first names and he clicked it, not giving a damn about what time it was (although it was probably still early enough to call up the hunter even if it felt like hours had passed since he lost Sam as opposed to mere minutes). He held the phone to his ear, buzzing with tension. He didn't like relying on other hunters to help him out, especially with his sons, but Sam was missing and they weren't fucking around here.

"Singer." Bobby's gruff voice was like an anchor, pulling John back to Earth.

"Bobby. It's John. Winchester," he added hurriedly. Last time they had been at Sioux Falls, Sam had been twelve and Dean had been sixteen and they had both been sick and whiny and John had been losing his mind. This time it was much more serious.

"John?" There was a scuffling noise from the other side of the phone that sounded like the other man sitting up. Bobby was probably messing around with one of the many neglected cars that littered his salvage yard. "Long time no see, ya idjit." John smiled wryly to himself. He knew what that translated as - _next time you disappear off the face of the planet, call me first so I can kick your ass_. Bobby, though he would never admit it, worried. "What d'ya want?"

John swallowed. His voice seemed to disappear. "I..." He licked his lips and tried again. "It's Sam. He's gone."

"Gone?" Bobby repeated, sounding more concerned this time underneath his rough tone.

"He's been taken, Bobby," snapped John, a little harsher than necessary but damn it, they needed to find Sam now. Every second he spent with that demon put him in more and more danger. This thing had killed Mary, but it had much worse plans for Sam.

Forcing himself back into reality because he knew if he didn't he would never escape his thoughts, John didn't give Bobby a chance to respond. "We need your help to find him."

Bobby exhaled loudly. John pictured him adjusting the cap that had taken up near-permanent residence upon his head. "Aw, hell. Alright. What are we dealin' with here?"

"Demon." His answer was short, to the point. He knew Bobby wouldn't take it the wrong way and frankly he didn't care if he did. He told Bobby where they were, as quickly as he could. He had a few more calls to make. "Find out what you can." Never a man for goodbyes, John hung up and flicked back onto the next name in his phone numbers. Caleb.

Caleb was reasonably close by, finishing up a case, and agreed to get there as soon as possible. Joshua was further away, halfway across the country and in the middle of dealing with a witch but John knew he cared too much about Sam and Dean to do nothing. He would help as much as he could. Then it was Pastor Jim, more for his own peace of mind than for any actual help finding Sam. Jim kept him grounded. He was annoyingly good at giving the kind of advice that helped John even when he didn't want to be helped.

He finished up on the phone calls. Dean was practically vibrating by this point, muscles tensed and ready to go even while his eyes seemed far away, looking at something no one else could see.

"Come on, Dean." John grabbed the keys to the Impala and headed for the motel door, Dean right behind him. It was time to find Sam.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews last chapter! :) I've reached the end of the pre-typed chapters now and NaNoWriMo has prevented me from working on it a lot this month, but I have half of Chapter 8 already so I should be fine to update next week. Also, I had a surprising amount of fun writing Bobby. :P Let me know what you think!**

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><p>If Sam had thought being with Yellow-Eyes was bad, it was nothing compared to this. On his own, he was left with nothing but his thoughts for company, and that was always dangerous ground.<p>

His head hurt, a constant driving pain like someone stabbing a spear into his head over and over again. There was a horrible clawing sensation in his stomach, something sizzling and bubbling inside him._ Blood_. Sam was hit with the sudden, wild urge to tear his skin off, just to get the blood away, get it out of him. It was eating him alive.

He had to get out, he had to get away before Yellow-Eyes came back. Sam had no idea how long he'd be gone for, so he had to work quickly. It turned out that was easier said than done, though. It was near impossible to move. His arms had gone numb from being twisted and tied up behind him for so long, and his legs – bound to the chair – weren't doing much better.

Still, he struggled against the bonds, thinking that maybe if he could reach the knife in his waistband he could cut himself free. The rope rubbed against his skin as he moved. The tip of a finger brushed against the knife, tantalizingly close. He tugged harder this time, grunting at the pain. It felt like his arm was trying to dislocate itself.

Eventually, not wanting to pull his arm off, he was forced to give up with a strangled half-sob. Hopelessness pressed down on him, nearly choking him. Feeling useless, Sam gave one last fruitless tug at his restraints and hoped against hope that his dad and brother were looking for him.

* * *

><p>Bobby Singer sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He pinched the bridge of his nose, took a sip of rapidly cooling coffee and turned back to the books and newspapers that he had been poring over for several hours. This was going nowhere.<p>

He didn't understand how Sam had just been taken, and with the bare minimum that John had told him, he didn't know how to get him back either. "Dang idjits," he muttered to himself grimly, reading over yet another newspaper article that he had already scanned four times, in the hope that maybe this time he would find something.

Bobby was worried. Sam was a perfectly capable kid (and maybe Bobby wished he didn't have to be, but there was no use in wishing for what he couldn't have), but demons were nothing to mess around with. And he knew that if he was worried, John and Dean had to be tearing their hair out by this point. He hoped Caleb and Joshua had had more luck than him. He knew John would have called them. When his sons were involved, John would do whatever it took to keep them safe, even if it meant relying on other hunters.

John was a stubborn ass, but he sure did care about his boys.

He sighed as his phone, sitting on a pile of papers next to him, buzzed into life. The screen flashed up with John's number and Bobby picked up the phone, reluctant to tell John that he hadn't found anything. He didn't much fancy incurring the wrath of an angry Winchester.

"Bobby, tell me you have something." No beating about the bush, that was John Winchester.

The grizzled hunter sighed and ran a hand over the stubble on his face. "Nothin', John."

"Nothing?" If he wasn't mistaken, Bobby detected a hint of desperation in John's tone, which was surprising even if it was only to be expected. John so rarely let his real emotions show that Bobby constantly found himself shocked when he did – and it never happened unless something was going on with his boys.

"You gotta give me more info, John. Ain't nothing that I can find, with just a demon to go on. There's demons all over the place."

There was silence on the other line. Outside, Rumsfield barked loudly. Bobby wondered if the dog had sensed his distress. He always did have some weird thing going on, always tuned into people's emotions. Damn strange, if you asked him.

"Alright." John's voice was hard again, no hint of the emotion he had displayed before. "This thing... it's not a regular demon."

Bobby was silent, waiting. This obviously wasn't easy for John, he didn't want to stop John by interrupting.

He could hear John sigh on the other side of the phone. There was no other noise. Dean was probably out, looking for his brother. Bobby couldn't imagine the kid sitting around doing nothing. After another moments pause, John spoke again. "It got past the salt lines, Bobby. I... I think it's the thing that killed Mary."

Bobby let out a low whistle, stunned. There wasn't a lot a guy could say to something like that. "Why would it take Sam, though?" There was no point in offering apologies about Mary, it would just put John's defences up, so Bobby forged ahead with their top priority – finding Sam.

"I don't know, Bobby. It did something to him, that night... I don't think it wants to kill him."

Bobby pushed away from his desk and stood up, grabbing his now stone-cold coffee. "Well, that's somethin', I guess." He poured the coffee down the sink. It gurgled as the liquid disappeared. "So what does it want?"

John exhaled loudly. Judging by the silence, Bobby assumed he was debating whether or not to trust him with this. Stubborn idjit, he didn't seem to understand that Bobby was his friend – however much of an ass the other man might be at times.

"It... It wants Sam. It wants to make him some kind of soldier or something, I don't know... that's all Missouri could find out."

Bobby didn't ask who Missouri was, absorbing this new knowledge with all of his usual grace. "Balls."

John made a noise of agreement.

"Anything else?" Bobby asked at length, adjusting his cap and staring out of the window over the sink. It looked out at the salvage yard, carcasses of old cars littering the dusty ground.

"Not that I can think of. Salt doesn't stop it, and I'm pretty sure it's got psychic powers. That's how it... with Mary..." The rest of the sentence went unsaid, but Bobby heard it loud and clear. _How it pinned Mary to the ceiling_. "It leaves sulphur behind, and there's been a couple of reports of this happening to other families – not enough to make a pattern, though," John added, snapping himself straight back into hunter mode. "One witness said it had yellow eyes... that's all I know."

John was stretched to breaking point, from the sound of it. Not willing to let him become any more stressed, Bobby nodded even though John couldn't see it. "Alright," he replied with a calmness he didn't feel, "I'll see what I can dig up." There was a pause, then Bobby spoke again. "We'll find your boy, John."

Silence on the other end, yet again, before John sighed once more, wearily. "Thanks, Bobby." He sounded old.

There was a click as John hung up. Bobby scrubbed a hand over his face and headed back to his books.

* * *

><p>Dean was going insane.<p>

Some fugly, demonic son-of-a-bitch had his brother and he had no idea where, or what was happening to him, or if he was even still alive.

No. He was still alive. Dean would know if he wasn't. He would just know. He was connected to Sam, knew him almost as well as the kid knew himself.

_Didn't help you work out what was wrong with him, though, did it? _There it was. The ugly truth. Because it hadn't helped – he hadn't helped. And now Sam was missing.

Gritting his teeth, Dean stamped his foot down on the brakes as he pulled into the motel parking lot. The Impala screeched a little in protest. "Sorry, baby," muttered Dean, wrenching the door open and stepping out into the cool night air. He had been into town, asking around after Sam. He knew it was a lot shot, but he had to do something, he couldn't just sit around twiddling his thumbs while Dad and Bobby and Caleb and Joshua and even freaking_ Pastor Jim _were working to find Sam.

Dean growled low in his throat, the thought of that demon hurting his brother sending a wave of anger crashing down on him. Where did any of these freaky monsters get off, even touching his brother? Dean ran a hand through his hair and exhaled loudly. Okay. It would be okay. They would find Sam – who would be absolutely fine – and then they'd kick the ass of whatever demon had been stupid enough to mess with the Winchesters. His brother was fine. He was a Winchester, totally able to hold his own against supernatural sons-of-bitches.

Only what if he wasn't fine?

The thought leapt, unbidden, into Dean's mind, and he let out another growl. Louder, this time, more frustrated. He wanted to punch something, but the only thing within arms-length was the Impala and even now, he wasn't mad enough to punch his baby.

Three days later, though, he was singing a different tune.

* * *

><p>Three days later, Sam was going absolutely stir-crazy.<p>

Yellow-Eyes kept up his usual in-and-out visits, like he had when he was dropping into Sam's head. This time, though, it was different. Sam had learnt to dread them more than he had previously. Every time Yellow-Eyes visited now, he forced blood down his throat. Sam would always fight, struggling with all of his strength, but with his being tied up, it didn't help much. Yellow-Eyes had let him up to move about a few times, saying they didn't "want your arms to fall off, Sammy-boy", but it hadn't made any difference. Sam had been watched closely the entire time and the first time it happened, Yellow-Eyes had taken Sam's knife and with it any hopes of an easy escape.

The blood was the worst part of this whole nightmare, though. It made him feel dirty, contaminated, having that stuff forced into him, and it felt... weird. There was no other word for it. The clawing feeling inside his stomach only let up right after he was made to drink the blood, but otherwise it persisted wholeheartedly. It was as if it was trying to fight its way out of him.

Today, however, was different.

Sam couldn't say why it was different, or how he knew any of this, but it was definitely different.

His thoughts were only confirmed when Yellow-Eyes entered the warehouse with all of his usual confidence, striding purposefully towards Sam. Early morning light flickered through the door briefly before Yellow-Eyes flicked a hand at it and slammed it shut. Sam blinked blearily at it for a moment, having lost all track of time in this place, before turning to look at Yellow-Eyes.

"Morning, Sammy." The man was grinning at him. He always seemed to be grinning. Sam wished he wasn't so God-damn _happy_ all of the time. It was downright terrifying.

The teenager made no move to respond, and Yellow-Eyes tutted. "Still mad at me, huh? Come on, don't be like that."

Suddenly, Sam decided that he wasn't going to stand for this. He was going to get answers. "What the hell are you?" he demanded, in typical Winchester fashion – charging forwards thoughtlessly. They weren't exactly renowned for their social graces, especially where freaky supernatural monsters were concerned.

Yellow-Eyes chuckled. "I wondered how long it would take you to ask that," he replied, tone dripping with the odd worldly wisdom of someone who has lived a very long time. "I, Sammy-boy, am a demon."

Sam stared. "A demon?" he repeated. That didn't make sense. Sam knew his stuff, and this thing definitely didn't match up with anything he knew about demons. "Demons have black eyes. They can't get past salt lines, they don't go jumping into people's heads, they-"

A raised hand cut Sam off. "Let me stop you right there. I'm a whole different kind of demon, not some amateur. I know my stuff." Yellow-Eyes looked almost offended that Sam had mistaken him for some low-ranking minor-league demon.

Still not sure what to believe, Sam soldiered on with his questions. "Wait... so I've been drinking demon blood?" The thought horrified him. Drinking any kind of blood was bad enough, but demon blood... weren't there side-effects to that, or something?

"Drinking it, yes. But there's more to it than that... it's _in_ you, Sammy. That's a story for another day, though."

"It's in me? What... what d'you mean?" Sam swallowed ineffectually, as though he could somehow swallow down his fear and confusion and become a hardened hunter, brave like Dean and Dad.

"Like I said, that's for another day. We'll get to that, though, don't you worry." Yellow-Eyes was crouched down beside him now, scanning his face carefully. Uncomfortable, Sam tried to lean away but found himself restricted once more by the ropes. Whatever Yellow-Eyes was looking for, he seemed to find it, as he gave a tiny satisfied nod to himself. "So, we've been here a while, huh?" His voice was soft, but no less dangerous. "You wanna know how long? Three days." It felt like much longer than that. It felt like three years, but Sam didn't say that. He didn't say anything.

"Three days, Sammy," repeated the demon. "Are you sure Dean and your daddy are looking for you?" His voice, nearly silent now, ghosted across Sam's ear. "Are you sure they haven't realised they're better off without you and your freaky ways?"

_No_, said a voice in Sam's head,_ they wouldn't do that_. Truthfully, though, he had been wondering that himself. He trusted his family with his life, but he had always felt a little like a burden and less like an actual person in his family. Someone to be protected and defended but not trusted with anything important.

"Do you really think they're coming for you?" Demons lied, Sam reminded himself. Demons lied demons lied demons lied and Dean and Dad were coming for him, they _were_. Weren't they?

Frustration swept over Sam, and suddenly he felt like sobbing. Emotions swirled around inside him, too many and each of them too intense to define one from another. "Shut up! Just _shut up_!" he screamed, and then it happened.

The glass shattered. The window of the door simply splintered and then shattered, falling to the floor in pieces.

There was silence.

Yellow-Eyes looked satisfied, leaning back and then rising to his full height. "Very good, Sammy-boy. I think we're ready to start Phase Three."


	8. Chapter 8

**Here it is, as promised: Chapter 8! :) I hope you enjoy it, guys. I'm a bit nervous about this one, it feels like kind of a slow chapter, but it sorts out one of the plot holes that's been bothering me. I have the whole plot sorted from here on out, hopefully, so Chapter 9 will be up the same time next week. Let me know what you think! :)  
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><p>Caleb showed up on day three, pulling into the motel parking lot in his usual nondescript truck that Dean knew was loaded with weapons. After all, Caleb was an arms-dealer. It was a good thing he had never been stopped by the cops, because there was enough stuff in that truck to put him away for a long time. Unless he had a license for that kind of thing, but Dean had always just assumed that he didn't. They didn't often stop to be legally approved in this life.<p>

Dean had been left with strict instructions to hold down the fort while his dad was out scouring the area for any sign of Sam, and he was slowly going crazy. There had been no word from Bobby for a full day now and Joshua's hunt was apparently kicking his ass – it was going to take him a long time to be any help at all. Caleb was the only one remotely nearby, and Dean didn't know how helpful he was going to be, either.

There was the sound of Caleb's heavy footsteps outside the door and then a brief pause before the older man rapped on the door. Dean sighed and rose from the table where he was sitting – the mess that he had made when Sam was taken had been cleared up by a friendly maid who was surprisingly good about the whole thing – and strode towards the door. It was flung open to reveal Caleb.

Dean could still remember his stage of hero-worshipping Caleb. With his shaven head and tough attitude and seemingly endless supply of weapons, Caleb was just so _cool_, and only a couple of years older than Dean. He was now twenty-five and Dean had grown out of it, but when Dean was twelve and Caleb was nineteen, he had been desperate to be like him.

Now, though, the only thing on his mind was Sam. It felt like he was missing an arm, without Sam there, a constant nagging ache of something fundamentally wrong. Sam wasn't there, which was bad enough without Dean freaking out about where he was instead.

"Dean, man." Caleb stepped over the salt lines and pulled Dean into a one-armed hug, clapping him briefly on the back before releasing him. Dean grimaced. "'S good to see you," Caleb was saying now. Really? Small talk? Now? Caleb seemed to pick up on this, though, and continued briskly, all business. "Any word on Sam?"

Dean headed back to the table where newspaper clippings and a laptop they all used for research was resting. "Nothing," he replied grimly, taking a seat. He waved a hand at the research that littered the tabletop. "How could he just disappear, Caleb?" It came out sounding accusatory, as though he blamed his brother for being kidnapped by the freaking demon – which was so _not_ the case, 'cause his brother might be a damn good hunter but he couldn't help being snatched up out of nowhere by some supernatural nasty – but Caleb didn't seem to think anything of it.

Instead, he just sighed. "I dunno, Dean. We'll find him, though. Where's John?"

"Out." Dean ran a hand through his hair. "I think he's gone to ask around town." For the tenth time. None of them had seen Sam, which probably meant he was no longer even in town and they were wasting their time, but demons were good at hiding.

"Alright." Caleb exhaled loudly, looking troubled. Dean knew that look. He had seen it before, when John was working a case with the other man and Caleb thought there was nothing they could do to help. It hadn't stopped him before, though, and it wouldn't stop him now. "Let's get to work."

* * *

><p>"Phase Three?" Sam tore his gaze away from the shattered window, trying not to think about the implications of what happened there. "What's that?"<p>

Yellow-Eyes grinned. "It's the start of your training, Sammy. That, just now?" He nodded his head at the shards of the glass strewn across the floor, eyes glimmering. "That, Sam, was the start of your psychic abilities emerging." He drew each word out, like an exquisite torture that he didn't want to go by too quickly.

Sam felt like he'd just been sucker-punched in the gut. "Psychic abilities?" He was beginning to feel distinctly like the demon's echo right now, but his mouth didn't seem to want to form any new words right now. Swallowing, Sam imagined he could still feel the taste of demon blood lingering in his mouth, even though he hadn't had any forced down his throat since last night.

"Uh huh," replied Yellow-Eyes. "As I'm sure a smart kid like you knows, demon blood has some – shall we say – side effects." He paused, as if deciding exactly how much information to divulge at this point.

Swallowing, Sam said nothing. Yellow-Eyes gave him an amused look as though he knew exactly what he was thinking before he continued. "Now, these side effects are only mild but if you add them to the demon blood already inside you then you know what you get?"

Demon blood inside him and side effects and psychic abilities and holy_ crap_, was Sam screwed. This was absolutely insane. This couldn't be happening. This was just some crazy dream. He wasn't really here.

Yellow-Eyes didn't seem to mind the lack of response. "A whole tonne of _power_, Sammy."

Oh God, he was going to pass out in a minute if he didn't calm down. His breathing quickened, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure the demon could hear it too, and still Yellow-Eyes stood, looking at him as though he were a particularly interesting specimen. Breathe, Sam, he told himself. Breathe. Breathing was kind of important.

It didn't seem that way right now, though. "Power?" he echoed, wishing he could do something other than repeat the demon's words back to him. "Why would you want to give me power?" It didn't make sense. If the demon made Sam powerful, surely that was giving him the means to escape – and wasn't that the last thing Yellow-Eyes wanted? Sam was so confused right now, he couldn't even put it into words.

Yellow-Eyes looked almost bored. "I need a soldier, Sam," he told him flatly, like he was explaining something that Sam ought to already know. "To fight in an unholy war and such. You up for the part?"

Wait, what? Soldier? War? This was so far from what Sam had been expecting. "I'm not going to be your soldier," Sam said after a moment, angry and confused but definitely not wanting to agree with anything Yellow-Eyes wanted him to do.

Sighing, Yellow-Eyes nodded grimly. "I had a feeling you might say that." His hand reached out so that it was just a few inches from Sam's forehead, fingers splayed outwards. Then he twisted his wrist and Sam knew nothing but pain. His head felt like it was being split open, someone carelessly pulling it apart and prodding at the inside with a red-hot poker. He couldn't even scream, his mouth working soundlessly, his eyes screwed tightly shut.

Then it stopped.

Slowly, Sam opened his eyes and took several deep, ragged breaths. What the hell was that? He opened his mouth to ask but he only got as far as "What-" before Yellow-Eyes interrupted him.

"_That_ is what happens when you disobey me, Sammy," Yellow-Eyes said. There was a glint in his eyes even as his face seemed sad, like it pained him to punish Sam. "I don't want to hurt you, but if that's what it takes to convince you to work with me, it's what I'll do. That was just a warm-up," he added and this time there was a definite glint in his yellow eyes, the barely concealed glee of someone who loves to cause pain. Sam was forcefully reminded that he was in fact in the presence of a demon. It suddenly seemed very important, and it was what stiffened his resolve when he next spoke.

"No!" He sounded breathless and pained and a little bit broken, but to his pride he didn't sound scared. "No," he said again, more softly.

Yellow-Eyes tutted. "Alright," he said. "I'll make a deal with you."

"No," said Sam immediately. "I don't make deals with demons." It was one of the first things John had told him about demons. _You don't make deals with them. Nothing, but nothing, is worth your soul. _His dad might not be here right now but that didn't change anything.

"Not that kind of deal," replied Yellow-Eyes impatiently. "I don't want your soul, I want _you_. So I'll tell you what... you work with me here, you let me train you up, and I'll grant you one request. Anything," he added meaningfully, baring his bright teeth, "Well, anything except me letting you go."

He could ask for his family. They would know what to do, how to fight this. He could ask Yellow-Eyes to tell his family where Sam was. Then they would be able to prepare and fight, maybe even kill Yellow-Eyes. But he was a demon, and demons couldn't be killed. They would be able to send the son-of-a-bitch back to Hell, though.

But what if they were already working on it? What if they already knew where Sam was? He would be learning about freaky powers, drinking demon blood, for nothing. And demons couldn't be trusted. It was a bad idea. A really, really bad idea. An insane idea. He was making a deal with a demon – even if it wasn't his soul that was up for offer. Would drinking demon blood earn him a place in Hell anyway? Sam wished he knew more about that kind of thing.

It was a terrible idea. He knew that.

What if they never found him, though? What if they couldn't find him and they just left him, thinking that Sam was dead? He couldn't, _wouldn't_ take that risk. Sam swallowed and opened his mouth, but no sound came out. That was stupid. He wanted to do this, he knew he did. He didn't have to work too hard at the psychic thing, and he'd be able to forget about it as soon as Dean and Dad got him out of here.

That was even more stupid, though. He knew he would never be able to forget about this – he just had to hope that his family would never find out exactly what went down here. "Okay," Sam said after a long moment of silence. "I do this, and you make sure that my family find me. Alive," he added hurriedly. It would be just like a demon to try and trick him in that way, but he had no other choice but to go with it.

Yellow-Eyes nodded, looking delighted. "Then we have a deal. _Awe_some." Sam did not share his enthusiasm. This, he thought, was anything but awesome. This was the opposite of awesome. Still, he had made his bed and now he had to lie in it. He could do this. Just until Dean and Dad found him. They were looking for him. They _were_.

"So, uh," Sam stopped and swallowed yet again, struggling to get the words out, "how do we do this?"

Yellow-Eyes looked at him appraisingly for a moment. "I think you need some extra blood before we get started, actually," he decided. Sam tried not to groan. He didn't want blood. He didn't want any of this. He wanted to break down and sob. No more. He couldn't take any more.

He had to, though. There wasn't any other option here. "Make it quick," he said instead, harshly.

Nodding, Yellow-Eyes whipped out that stupid knife and sliced it down his arm. The cuts from previous days had healed already, a perk that came with being a demon. Blood oozed out of the wound immediately and Yellow-Eyes leaned over Sam, shadowing him with darkness. It felt quite appropriate. "Open wide, Sammy," breathed Yellow-Eyes, and Sam obeyed.

He felt like a traitor, doing this. All of the other times this had happened, Sam had fought with everything he had. Complying went against every instinct inside him. He wanted to fight, kick and punch and hell, even bite if it would get him away. He forced himself to remember the deal they had instead of focusing on the blood dripping down onto his tongue.

Distantly, he wondered if this would have any kind of longer effect. He hoped not. If Yellow-Eyes had to keep topping him up, so to speak, then surely that meant it wouldn't last very long.

He was definitely over thinking this.

It felt like a lifetime had passed by the time Yellow-Eyes pulled his arm away. Sam swallowed before he could stop himself and the blood glided down his throat. It felt wrong, so wrong.

"And now we're ready to party," Yellow-Eyes declared. "Now, Sammy-boy, the first thing you gotta do is relax that big ol' brain of yours. Close your eyes" – Sam did as he was told, glad that he didn't have to look at Yellow-Eyes any longer – "and breathe." Yeah, breathing was kind of important. This was not what he had expected, though. He had expected blood and fire and pain, not deep breathing like he was in some freaking yoga class.

"Clear your mind, Sam," Yellow-Eyes said sharply, like he knew Sam's mind was otherwise occupied. How the hell was he supposed to clear his mind at a time like this? He couldn't do that under normal circumstances, let alone now when he was freaking out and – "Clear your mind, or you won't have any control." Yellow-Eyes sounded serious, even with the underlying amusement that he always carried.

No control. Yeah. He was getting kind of used to that. He had spent his entire life feeling like a passenger in his own body, with no control over anything he did because their lives were controlled by the hunt. Sam forced himself not to think of that. He couldn't think of anything.

It took several minutes for Sam's mind to become suitably blank. Yellow-Eyes waited patiently, eyebrows raised as he watched Sam's internal struggle. "Alright, now," he said, "I want you to focus on one particular object." The demon glanced around the room and Sam watched as he flicked his hand at an empty cardboard box which flew several feet to land about a metre away from Sam. Sam didn't think he would ever get used to seeing Yellow-Eyes use his powers.

"Focus on the box, Sammy," Yellow-Eyes said. It sounded stupid. Why would he want to focus on a box? Maybe Yellow-Eyes had read his mind because he gave Sam a flat look. "Gotta start small, Sammy-boy. Gonna get ya to move the little things, then we can move into the major leagues – killing things with your mind and all that jazz." He looked excited by the prospect of murder and Sam wasn't at all surprised. Killing things, though? He hadn't signed up for that.

Trying not to think about what would happen if Dean and Dad didn't get here soon, Sam did as he was told and focused on the box. "Imagine yourself lifting it up," Yellow-Eyes said and Sam thought about how ridiculous all of this was. He could feel the demon blood bubbling and burning inside of him though, an implicit threat, so he tried his best to lift the box. How hard could it be?

It turned out it wasn't very hard. The box went soaring across the room and slammed into the wall before it fell to the ground with a hollow thud. Sam was suddenly very aware of the blood pumping through his veins. It was almost like adrenaline, but not quite. It was... different. It left him with a headache, though, pain spiking inside his skull. He was getting used to them, but that didn't mean he liked them.

There was a pause.

"Well," said Yellow-Eyes after a moment, "at least you moved it. Ya gotta have more control, though, Sammy." His words were light but there was an unspoken threat beneath them. _Get it right or the deal is off_.

Sam couldn't take that risk. He would get it right, whatever it took.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/****N: Okay, Chapter 9! Thanks for all the reviews and favourites - you guys are awesome. :) I'd love to hear what you think about this one.**

**Onwards!**

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><p>"It's been five days, Bobby. Tell me you have something."<p>

Bobby sighed and shifted, trying not to drop the phone that was clamped between his shoulder and his ear. His hands were clenched around the wheel of his old truck so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. Needless to say, things were not going well. "Well," he said grimly, "there ain't a lot I could dig up but it's definitely a demon of some kind, even if it's gotta be stronger than your average Joe to get past them salt lines. You sure you did 'em properly?"

Questioning John's abilities was never a good idea, especially when a mistake could have led to what was now happening to his son. Yeah, Bobby realised as soon as John burst out, "Of course I'm sure!"

That really hadn't been such a great idea.

On the other side of the phone, John exhaled loudly. "So we can't kill it?" He sounded defeated and Bobby hated him for that. It had been five days since Sam had disappeared from right under the Winchesters' noses, but that didn't mean he wasn't still alive, wasn't still fighting that son-of-a-bitch every step of the way. Bobby had a lot of faith in that kid, had done ever since John had first left him with his sons, a scrawny six year old with a chubby two year old peering out from behind his legs.

"Well, that's the thing," said Bobby, shifting again and trying to work out what exactly he was sitting on that was so uncomfortable, "I've been lookin' into that, too. From the sounds of it, there's a gun that can kill anything."

"That's impossible." John's answer was instant. Of course. John Winchester was a stubborn ass, stuck in his ways and only seeing things from his own perspective. Bobby stifled a sigh. Once he realised the potential of this weapon, he'd be singing a different tune.

"Ain't impossible, John," the older hunter ground out. "Just unlikely. Sounds like it's our best shot at killin' this thing, though, so ya wanna hear it or not?"

John let out another sigh, shakier than the last. It crackled through the phone like the electricity that hung in the air before a hunt. "Okay," he said. "Okay, what have you got?"

Bobby told him everything he knew.

* * *

><p>"Thanks, Bobby." John put the phone down without saying anything else and scrubbed a shaky hand down his face. It was a good thing Dean and Caleb were out. He needed time to process this.<p>

There was a gun out there somewhere. A gun that could kill anything. Even the demon – the thing that had killed Mary and kidnapped his youngest son. If he could get a hold of that gun... he could have revenge. He could finally avenge Mary's death.

John swallowed and stood up from his bed, the covers rumpled from nights spent tossing and turning. He paced the room. It was early afternoon, bright sunlight streaming in through the grimy window. Sam's bed was conspicuous in that it hadn't been slept it. Of course, Dean and John hadn't made much use of their beds either. Sleep had not come easily for the eldest Winchesters just lately.

That gun... they had to get that gun. They had to get Sam the hell out of there before that yellow eyed son-of-a-bitch did any more damage. John didn't want to think about what he could have done already. There was just one problem with getting their hands on the gun, though. They had no idea where it was. Bobby had checked with all of his contacts and the last he had heard, it was with another hunter by the name of Daniel Elkins, who had disappeared from the map several years ago. Bobby was doing all he could to dig up a trail, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough, not now that the demon had raised the stakes.

They had to move faster. They would have to exorcise the thing. It was still a demon, surely that meant they could send it straight back to Hell. It would come back, John didn't doubt that for a second, but it would buy them some time. Enough time to find the Colt, maybe.

That wasn't all. They had been picking up signs now, for the last day or so. Signs that the demon was close. Electrical storms had been happening all across town, power shortages and blackouts. Then there were the deaths – just animals, cattle, according to Dean, who had been roped into conversation with a disgruntled farmer when he was at one of the local bars searching for answers. The man, who lived on the outskirts of town, had not been pleased about the sudden deaths of three perfectly healthy cattle.

John had been searching for this thing long enough to know a few of the signs. It had never been enough to piece together the bigger picture, though, and it still wasn't. John had never felt so useless, so helpless. God dammit, his son was with this thing and all he could do was sit in a cheap motel room and wait for Bobby to find the Colt. He resisted the urge to slam his fist into the wall. It wouldn't help. Nothing would help.

The demon was close, though. He knew that, all of the signs pointed to that. How close, he wasn't sure. He wasn't able to pinpoint a certain location and searching the whole town just wasn't good enough. It wasn't fast enough. They were running out of options, though, and John knew that both he and Dean would tear this town apart if it meant they would get Sam back. God, he hoped his youngest was okay.

Just then, the door was flung open and Dean and Caleb strode in, tearing John away from his thoughts which, in retrospect, was probably a good thing. "Find anything?" John asked, even though the stony expression on Dean's face said it all. His oldest son shook his head.

"Nothing," Dean said. Honestly, none of them really knew what they were looking for any more. Dean had been taking the Impala around town and John had even gone so far as to buy a cheap truck from some guy who looked like he was on drugs, just to follow a possible lead in the next town over while Dean was out searching for Sam. The lead had been useless but John kept the truck. It was battered and probably stolen but Bobby could fix it and the law had never bothered John before. At least now they could split up, cover more ground. John didn't like the idea of being apart from both of his sons, he especially didn't like the idea of Dean finding this thing and maybe even going after it alone, but it was a risk they had to take.

John sighed and slumped into a seat at the table, where he was quickly joined by Dean and Caleb. "Did Bobby find anything yet?" Caleb asked.

Ah. Yeah. "He thinks he might know how to kill it," John said cautiously, very aware of how he could get Dean's hopes up here. Even now, he could see Dean tense up and he carried on before his son could say anything. "It's a gun, called the Colt. Apparently there are thirteen bullets and this gun, it can kill anything. Demons included."

Caleb was frowning. "It can kill demons?"

John understood the younger man's confusion. It had taken him some time to wrap his own mind around the idea, after all. He nodded. "There's just one problem."

"Let me guess," Dean interrupted and at any other time John might have snapped at him for that, but not now, "We have no idea where it is."

"Got it in one," John said, running a hand through his hair. He felt very old.

"Then what the hell is the use in knowing about it?" demanded Dean.

John frowned. "Watch your tone, Dean," he said because honestly? He didn't know. Reminding Dean that he was still in charge helped to convince himself that he was still in control here, even if it felt like everything was slipping from his fingers.

Dean looked frustrated but said nothing else. After a few moments of heavy silence, he spoke again. "Sam's been gone for five days, Dad. Five. Isn't there anything else we can do? Couldn't we, I dunno, exorcise it?"

John didn't like the desperation in his son's voice but he was feeling it too. Every second that Sam spent away from them was a second spent with that demon. "There have been signs," John told him hesitantly. "Those cattle deaths, and the electrical storms. We might be able to find it, if we can look for it without it finding out. If we find it, we could try to exorcise it. I think it would work."

"You think?" Dean repeated. "It's a demon, isn't it? All demons can be exorcised." John hadn't told Dean everything. He hadn't told Dean how this demon was the thing that had killed Mary. Instead, he had just said that it was a high-ranking demon, stronger than any of the ones they had hunted before. Dean had accepted it like he accepted everything his father said and John had managed to convince himself that at least he was protecting one of his sons.

Nodding, John replied, "That's what I'm counting on. This thing has Sam, though. We gotta be completely certain before we go charging after it." Dean just nodded, jaw clenched, and John knew that playing the Sam card had been the right thing to do.

Caleb looked troubled, but for a different reason. "Surely something that powerful would be able to stop a few electrical storms," he pointed out.

John dismissed the idea instantly, even as he understood what Caleb was implying. "Everything has some kind of give-away. Why would it want us to find it?" Caleb was an arms dealer more than he was a hunter, and John trusted his own instincts. This thing wasn't sending out signs deliberately, and it gave them the perfect opportunity to strike – if only they could find it first.

* * *

><p>Azazel was feeling very pleased with himself.<p>

It had been five days since he had taken little Sammy away from his family, and what a five days it had been. Sam was making excellent progress, the demon blood and his already sharp mind being a killer combination. Literally. Azazel had known the learning curve was fast, but damn! Sammy was a natural at this.

It probably had something to do with the fact that Azazel's blood was much more potent, what with him being a higher class of demon and all. And then there had been the whole thing with him giving Sam _way_ more demon blood than was healthy for the first few days. He hadn't liked it, but it had been necessary in order to kick Sam into shape.

Of course, Azazel would have preferred for Sam to be doing this of his own free will, but this worked as well. Azazel was a man – demon – of his word, and he would keep up his end of the deal. He had been sending out signs for the past two days, trying to draw those Winchesters and that stupid arms dealer closer to him. It wasn't all for Sam, though. He had his own reasons for wanting the older Winchesters to find Sammy like this.

They were hunters. They saw things in black and white. Good and bad. If it was supernatural, they killed it. And, well... psychic powers. They definitely counted as supernatural. Dean and John might not kill Sammy – Azazel was willing to defend his creation if it came down to it, but he doubted it would because, well, he was the hunters' family – but they wouldn't exactly accept him as he was either. Azazel was confident of that.

This was the perfect way to ostracise Sam from his family. Once Sam knew how his family really saw him, he would be much more inclined to work with Azazel. Hell, he might even want revenge on his family for their cruel treatment of him and well, who was Azazel to say no? It would get those irritating hunters off of his back.

Azazel wasn't worried. He knew John wouldn't be able to kill him. Oh sure, they might try to exorcise him, but he had the upper hand here. He had little Sammy, the perfect leverage.

Speaking of Sam... "Very good, Sam," Azazel said to the teenager, even though in truth he had been so distracted that he hadn't actually noticed what Sam was doing. It was bound to have been good, though. Sam had only been in training for two days, but he was no amateur.

Sam gave the demon a look. It was a look brimming with emotion, with anger and pain and fear and maybe even a little sadness. Azazel didn't like making Sam suffer. He was a demon, yes, but making Sam suffer at his hand was unacceptable. If he did that, Sam wouldn't want to work with him. He needed Sam to be his soldier. The other kids would be good, he was sure, but Sam would be the best. "You haven't held up your end of the deal," the boy said. He was panting, the effort of whatever he had been doing making it hard to breathe, and his nose was bleeding.

Azazel shrugged, making a show of looking casual. "You'll see your family, Sammy, don't you worry." He hadn't specified when, exactly, only that Sam had to be alive when they got here. He could manage that. Another few days and Sammy would be craving the demon blood. Azazel had been giving Sam less and less demon blood as the days went by. Enough to keep up the training, but not enough to satisfy his hunger. He liked keeping Sam on edge.

By his calculations, it wouldn't take much longer for John to pinpoint his location. Then, in typical hard-headed Winchester fashion, they would come blazing in his direction armed with useless guns and slightly less useless exorcisms and that weird paint that they used to make devil's traps. They'd probably bring that arms dealer with them, too. Caleb, wasn't it?

Anyway, when the Winchesters got here they were in for one hell of a shock. Sammy Winchester, skilled hunter and researcher and all that jazz, craving demon blood and bursting with psychic energy. They weren't gonna know what had hit them. Then maybe he'd let them have a little family moment before he forced Sam to make his choice.

Oh, yeah. This was going to be good.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Well, this was a close one. My computer got some nasty virus and I didn't think I'd get this finished on time, but luckily my dad is awesome and everything is fine now. So here we go: Chapter 10! I hope I haven't disappointed with this one, it was tough to write - let me know! :)**

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><p>It had been a week now since Sam had last seen his family. A week since he had been taken away from a filthy motel room and placed in an equally filthy warehouse. He wasn't sure how much longer he could do this for.<p>

"How's it going, Sammy?" Yellow-Eyes was back. He had been gone for about an hour or so, muttering that he had 'things to attend to' and saying something about 'short-sighted humans'. Honestly, Sam hadn't been able to concentrate on much past the throbbing in his head and the clawing in his stomach and the constant bombardment of emotions.

Sam glanced up at the demon. He wasn't an idiot. He knew Yellow-Eyes had been giving him less blood for the past couple of days – it would be hard not to notice. What he couldn't work out was why. All he knew was that it made him edgy and that there was a constant gnawing in his gut now, almost like hunger. It wasn't hunger, though, it couldn't be. Yellow-Eyes might have been a demon but he didn't want Sam dead. He had been feeding Sam – the bare minimum to survive, but feeding him nonetheless.

Aside from that, Sam had been working on his psychic powers. Moving objects had been surprisingly easy. It was having control that was harder but with nothing else to focus on, Sam had been improving pretty quickly. Not quickly enough, though. His family still wasn't here. That must mean he was doing something wrong.

Yellow-Eyes was watching him with a funny expression on his face. Sam couldn't say what the demon was thinking at that moment, although that was true most of the time. It scared him, but not enough to stop him asking, "Where's my family?"

"Hell if I know," Yellow-Eyes answered with a shrug, and Sam could have sworn his heart stopped. They had a deal! Oh crap, he was such an idiot to have gone along with this and Yellow-Eyes wasn't going to get his family and he was using psychic powers for nothing and he was so going to Hell for this and- "Calm down, Sammy-boy," Yellow-Eyes said, taking a step towards him. "I don't know, okay? They'll be here, though, don't you worry." There it was again, that brutal flash of teeth, that unnerving grin that Sam hated so much.

"Yeah?" Sam swallowed and ignored the way the sensation in his stomach flared up again. "When?"

"I wish I knew," Yellow-Eyes said. "I've been sending out signs for a couple of days now. Hell, Sammy, I might as well hang a huge, big, _neon_ sign over this place. Y'know, for hunters, your family ain't so great."

"Don't talk about them," Sam ground out. This thing, this demon didn't know anything about his family.

"My apologies, Sammy-boy. What should we talk about instead?"

Sam ignored the question. "What kind of signs?" He wanted to make a note of them. Once he got out of here, he had no doubt that they would be going after Yellow-Eyes. Sam wanted to be able to help.

Yellow-Eyes looked unsurprised by the question. Sighing in a suitably bored sort of way, he replied with, "Oh, you know. Cattle deaths, electrical storms. That kind of thing. Your family shoulda been able to pick it up by now."

Sam frowned. His family, as far as he knew, had not encountered this thing since that night that they never talked about. How would they know what signs to pick up on? Sam didn't voice this question. He just hoped that his family would find him soon. That was, assuming they were actually looking for him.

As much as Sam hated it, a part of him wondered if they weren't just going to leave him here. Surely they would be better off? This demon wanted him, after all. It had been him that it was after that night. It had been him it had taken. His family would be safer if he wasn't there. Better off. He had always felt like a bit of a burden, anyway, and he had hated the way his dad made him feel selfish because he wanted something more. Something better than hunting.

No. No, they were looking for him. They were.

But what would happen when they found him?

He was a mess. He had been drinking _demon blood_. He had _psychic powers_. He was weak and pathetic and a freak. Dean would have been able to resist this. He would have fought. Oh God, what if his family thought he was weak? What if they hated him?

Once it had entered his mind, Sam couldn't force the thought away. He tried anyway, instead choosing to focus on how much he felt like crap. And he did. Absolute crap. He felt hungry, even though Yellow-Eyes had actually given him food – something he hadn't expected – and he had a horrible feeling he knew why. It was the demon blood.

He needed more.

And then there were the headaches. Sam was in constant pain, blinded by it sometimes, and he had lost count of the amount of nosebleeds he had had. He was worried about it, sure, but there was nothing he could do. He had to do this. His family weren't here. He had to be strong on his own.

He had to hold out until they got here. He could do that.

* * *

><p>This was it.<p>

They had found the place that Sam had been taken to.

It was an old warehouse, on the outskirts of town, and it had been abandoned for some time now. Looking up at it, John could see why. This place was a dump.

It had taken them two more days of frantic searching to finally narrow down their options. This was the final place. Sam was here. Armed with exorcisms and iron and salt (it didn't work on the yellow eyed demon, but John had brought it in case of any lower calibre demons), John, Dean and Caleb had headed up to the warehouse. Slamming the door of the Impala, Dean stood next to John.

John hadn't wanted Dean to come along. He wanted to keep his sons as far away from everything to do with their mother's death as he could, but he had already failed at that because Sam was in there with the demon. He had tried to convince Dean to stay behind, though, thinking that maybe he could protect at least one of his sons, but that hadn't worked. Dean was here to stay.

"Alright," he spoke lowly, glancing to either side of him where Dean and Caleb stood. "Caleb, you head 'round the back and make sure it can't get out that way."

Caleb did not like being told what to do, John knew. He liked to be treated as an equal. In this situation, though, he didn't argue, just nodded and headed around the other side of the large building with a gun and everything he needed to prevent the demon escaping.

John gave Caleb a few minutes to get into position. The only noise was the soft in-and-out of Dean's breathing, and his own. It reassured John that even here, in the black of night outside an old warehouse waiting to rescue his youngest son, that Dean would have his back.

He nodded at Dean and his oldest set about painting a devil's trap on the concrete slabs just in front of the door. He moved silently and John hoped, perhaps futilely, that the demon had not yet noted their presence. He clutched the exorcism in his hand so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

This was definitely not ideal. He would have rather had the demon trapped in one small space, not an entire building, and if he had the Colt this whole thing would be a lot easier, but they couldn't afford to wait any longer. They were doing this now.

Dean straightened up, fingers stained red and expression determined, and John slammed his shoulder into the door. It was locked but weak and gave way easily. John burst into the room with Dean right on his heels and took a few short moments to assess the situation.

The demon was there, yellow eyes bright against the dull grey of the warehouse. It grinned when John and Dean came in, almost like it was pleased to see them. And then there was Sam. God, _Sam_. Tied to a chair and looking pale and worried and with dried blood on his face and somehow he looked so much younger and skinnier and _smaller_ than his fourteen years and John swallowed, forcing himself to look back at the demon.

"Glad you could make it, Johnny," the demon said and John gritted his teeth, tried to think beyond the rage clouding his vision as he stared down at the exorcism in his hand.

"Yeah," he managed at last, very aware of his sons' gazes on him. "Go get Sam," he muttered to Dean. His son didn't need telling twice; Dean shot across the warehouse towards his brother and John began to recite the exorcism, feeling like this was much too easy.

He was right.

"'Fraid I'm gonna have to stop you guys there," the demon announced before John could get more than a few words into the exorcism. Dean didn't even look up from where he was untying his brother, but John could see his hands shaking slightly and Sam wasn't meeting anyone's eye.

Then the demon flung an arm out and John and Dean were thrown through the air, slamming into the wall.

* * *

><p>Dean's breath escaped in a huge rush as he hit the wall, grimacing and briefly thinking that he was gonna have some pretty impressive bruises tomorrow – if he could stay alive for that long. He was suddenly very aware that they hadn't just been thrown into the wall. They were pinned to it with that son-of-a-bitch's psychic powers. Escape would be impossible until the demon allowed it. Grunting, Dean struggled anyway.<p>

"This is nice," the demon said after a moment, grinning. Dean spared it a single glare before he turned back to look at Sam. His brother looked like crap and his face was hidden behind his floppy brown hair. They might be about to die and everything but _God_, it was good to see him again. If only Sam would actually meet his eye. He hadn't said a word as Dean had untied him (and he had only gotten halfway through that, another thing he'd messed up) and Dean was worried.

Y'know, not that he wasn't worried anyway. "Nice?" he ground out, ignoring the warning look that John shot in his direction.

"Yeah," the demon replied with a nod of his head. There was a flicker in his eyes – freaky-ass _yellow_ eyes – that Dean did not like. At all. "You guys must be pleased to see each other again, huh?"

Pleased. Yeah, something like that. Of course, he'd be much more pleased if they could actually kick this demon back to Hell first. Speaking of which, was that Dad? Dean tried to look to his side but found he couldn't move. That was definitely his dad, though, still trying to blurt out the entire exorcism even though he'd dropped the paper, but the demon cut him off with a flick of his hand.

John tried to speak, looking mutinous, but no sound came out. Damn, this thing was powerful. Dean felt the beginnings of panic coil in his stomach.

"Y'know, Sammy here has been pretty busy while you guys have been looking for him," the demon said, taking a step closer to where John and Dean were held up against the wall. Dean tried to look past the demon to his brother – to see his reaction, to reassure him, hell, he didn't even know. He just needed his brother.

"I bet you guys wanna know what's been happening, huh?" Yeah, Dean wanted to know alright. He just didn't want to hear it from this demon. His mind was whirring, trying to think of a plan but he was kind of a little bit distracted by the fact that his brother was _right freaking there_ and he couldn't do a thing about it and wasn't that just great?

A less observant man might have missed the stern look that John shot his eldest son, but not Dean. It was a look designed to quell Dean's panic, a look that told him, firmly, to stay calm. It wasn't happening, not while Sam was in trouble. Still, a tiny spike of interest jabbed at him. He had to know what had been done to his brother.

The demon was pacing now, in full evil genius monologue mode, but Dean wasn't fooled. This thing knew what it was doing. It wasn't going to slip up. He hoped Caleb would work out something was wrong and figure out a plan. Until then, they had to try and stay alive. "I've been helping him out with some _abilities_ that he possesses," the demon drawled with a bright-toothed grin. "Isn't that right, Sammy?"

Dean didn't miss the minute flinch from his brother and felt his chest tighten with anger as he forced himself to hold back – helped, of course, by the fact that he couldn't actually move. A sideways glance at his dad (and how come he could suddenly move his head? That sort of implied that the demon _wanted _them to see each others faces) didn't tell him a lot. John looked a little pale and there was a set to his jaw, but that was probably just the lighting in this crap-shack.

"Spit it out," Dean managed at last, grunting the words out with a difficulty that came from both his position and the anger that was near choking him by this point.

"Demon blood, Dean," the demon said with a smirk, and this time Sam's flinch was much more prominent. Dean tried to catch his brother's eye, but it was a lost cause. "Sammy-boy has developed quite a taste for it and, well, it's really helped with his psychic powers."

Dean gaped at the demon, mouth working soundlessly because whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't that and holy crap, demon blood? What the hell did that mean? Had Sam drank demon blood? What had the demon done to him and what psychic abilities and why the hell wouldn't Sam meet his eye because surely it wasn't his fault, was it, so he should be able to look at Dean and not freak out and oh crap, he had to calm down.

John had been silent for the entire exchange but there was a kind of rage burning in his eyes that Dean had never seen before. Oh yeah. This thing was going down. You did _not_ tangle with the Winchesters and live.

He opened his mouth to make some kind of threat but the only word that didn't die on his lips was, "Sam?"

The mop of brown hair (greasy, probably, seeing as Sam hadn't washed in a week which was gross but the least of their problems) shifted a little and then Sam's pale face was visible along with the blood and dirt and _fear_. Sam's eyes looked bright and his brother did not cry easily so it was almost definitely the lighting in here, that had to be it.

Sam swallowed, throat working as if he was about to speak, but no words came out. His gaze pleaded for his brother to understand but if there was one thing Dean couldn't do, it was understand. Demon blood. The two words seemed to be seared into his brain.

"As touching as this is," the demon said, and Dean swung his head around to glare at him, "I'm afraid I have to interrupt. Sammy" – and as soon as Dean could move he was so kicking this demon's ass because no one could call his brother Sammy except him, no one – "it's time to make a choice." He stepped close – too close – to Sam, and whispered into his ear, murmuring words that Dean strained to hear.

It didn't work and Dean remained clueless as Sam ducked his head miserably. His expression was hidden again but Dean didn't get the chance to say anything to his brother because the demon was speaking again, to Sam, but louder this time. He wanted them to hear.

"You can stay with me, Sammy" – oh hell no, there was no freaking way that was happening – "and be my willing soldier, etcetera, etcetera..."

Yeah, that idea didn't sound too great.

"...Or I can kill your family."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: This one was a bitch to write. I'm still not entirely sure about it, but hopefully you guys enjoy it. :)**

* * *

><p>Okay, this was bad. This was very bad. This was very, very bad. There weren't enough words to describe how bad this whole situation was.<p>

Sam had thought it was bad when it was just him and Yellow-Eyes, had been surprised and relieved when his family came bursting into the warehouse, but this was so much worse than that. Sam felt like his brain had gone into overdrive.

Between Dean and Dad's reaction to all of this and the horrible things Yellow-Eyes had whispered to him just now (_stay with me, they hate you now, you don't belong with them, they don't deserve you..._) and the stupid choice he was forced to make, Sam didn't think he could take it any more.

And the way Dean was looking at him, like his world had just collapsed around him... oh God, Yellow-Eyes was right, Dean hated him. And why wouldn't he? Sam felt tears sting the backs of his eyes, felt that strange feeling stir at the pit of his stomach again.

"Sam, don't-" That was Dean, silenced by Yellow-Eyes before he could continue. Don't what? Don't bother? Don't come back? Thoughts flung themselves across his mind irrationally and Sam was powerless to stop them, his train of thought only broken by Yellow-Eyes' voice.

"Ya gotta choose, Sammy." The demon flung his hands out and grinned broadly. "Surely the choice is obvious."

And it was. It was so obvious it hurt. His family might hate him now – and Sam dropped his gaze again, determined not to see the condemnation on their faces – but he still cared about them. He still _loved_ them. He wouldn't let them get hurt.

"Okay," he said, softly, and felt something break deep inside him, felt himself sag with the heavy weight of defeat. "Okay," he said again, "I'll stay with you. Just... don't hurt them." Sam wanted to hate himself for giving in, for letting his family down by being so weak, for working with the thing that had torn their family apart, but he couldn't. He was doing the right thing, dammit.

"Awesome." Yellow-Eyes sounded triumphant. No doubt he looked it, too, but Sam wasn't about to look and find out. He kept his gaze firmly on the floor, as if hiding his weakness from the world would somehow make it leave him alone. "It's gonna be great, Sammy-boy. I knew you were my favourite for a reason."

The demon was right in front of him now, blocking Sam's view of his family – if he had been looking at them, anyway. He glanced up, met with a pair of yellow eyes staring right at him, into him. Distantly, Sam wondered if Yellow-Eyes was reading his mind. It wouldn't help the demon; even Sam didn't know what he was thinking right now. He couldn't focus. He felt like he was falling apart.

"Let them go, first," Sam said. His family had to be out of here. Sam wasn't stupid. He wasn't going to make the mistake of taking Yellow-Eyes at face value. The demon had to be planning something, and he wanted his family to be out of the blast zone when it happened.

Yellow-Eyes shrugged. "I'm surprised you still care, Sammy," he said softly, so softly that only Sam could hear. "I mean, with what they know now? How they feel towards you? We both know they hate you, Sammy-boy. Hell, if I let them go, they might even _hunt _you."

"No." The reply was instinctive. They wouldn't do that, would they? They wouldn't go that far. They wouldn't hurt him. "Let them go."

But no matter how much he told himself that they wouldn't harm him, he couldn't make himself believe it. The tears that had welled up in his eyes finally spilled over, slipping silently down his cheeks. Sam swallowed and met the demon's eyes, trying to strengthen his resolve. He was a Winchester; he didn't cry.

Only he wasn't much of a Winchester any more, was he?

* * *

><p>Something was wrong.<p>

It didn't take a genius to work it out, even if Caleb liked to think he was something of a genius. Not everyone could do what he did, after all.

But the fact remained that something was wrong. From his position at the back of the building, Caleb could just about hear muted voices but nothing else. No sounds of a struggle. Nothing. And yet the demon was still there, that much Caleb was sure of. The Winchesters would be out by now if the demon had been dealt with.

They had to have been trapped. That was it. Caleb clenched his jaw and puffed an irritated breath of air from his nose. Damn demons. He hadn't signed up for this. He didn't do demons; ghosts and witches were more his thing. He was just here to help John get his kid back.

And okay, he liked Sam well enough – it was hard _not _to like the kid – but really he was doing this for John and Dean. He didn't want to think about what would happen if Sam didn't make it through this. The small, dysfunctional family held each other together. If one of them died, the other two might follow soon after.

He was thinking way too much. He had to get moving. There were no entrances around this side of the building, save for a grimy window that looked like it had rusted shut over the years. It was worth a shot, because Caleb didn't like the idea of going in the same way the Winchesters had. The demon would be expecting that.

Gun still clutched in both hands, alert and ready to go, Caleb moved quietly towards the window. A glance through it revealed nothing. He'd just have to hope they were distracted. One hand lifted from the gun and pushed against the window. It didn't budge. Caleb pushed harder. Nothing.

He groaned. This wasn't going to work. He would just have to smash it. It would alert the demon to his presence, sure, but he'd have the element of surprise – he hoped. Caleb gritted his teeth and slammed his elbow, hard, into the old window. The glass splintered, surprisingly quietly, and Caleb pulled his sleeve over his hand before clearing the rest of the glass away.

Small cuts littered his arm. Caleb stood still and listened for a few seconds, waiting to see if anyone was coming, if anyone had heard him. The muffled voices were a little easier to hear now, but no one seemed to have noticed him. Trying not to think about how it was probably a trap, Caleb checked that he had everything – gun, salt, and an extremely vague recollection of an exorcism – before hauling himself through the window.

It was a tight fit, but eventually he managed to wriggle through and land on the floor inside. He was in some kind of storage room, it seemed, which was weird because wasn't the entire building just one huge storage room? Caleb tried not to think about that, just counted his blessings that he was alone in here.

Okay, so he didn't remember the exorcism. He wouldn't be able to waste the demon with his gun. Salt was, apparently, useless. But maybe he could distract the thing long enough for John to get it. He didn't have time to work on a plan. They needed help now.

Slowly, he twisted the door knob and the door (which was, mercifully, unlocked) swung open. Gun firmly in his hands, finger on the trigger, Caleb stepped into the room. All eyes were on him. "Howdy," he greeted with a cocky grin.

Time to get distracting. He quickly made a note of the situation. If he could distract the demon long enough, Sam might be able to get free – his bonds looked kind of loose, and Caleb assumed the older Winchesters had been in the process of untying him when they were forced against the wall. Yeah, those two wouldn't be much help. The demon had them pinned.

Ah. Yeah. Psychic powers. He'd forgotten about that and he resisted the urge to slam his fist repeatedly into the wall. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Now they'd be lucky if any of them got out alive. God dammit, this was why he rarely worked with other hunters. There was too much at stake.

The demon did not attack immediately. "Hi," it greeted with a grin.

Caleb hated it when demons smiled. He flickered his gaze to Sam. "You look like crap, kid," he told the teen, and it was true.

Sam just gaped at him. Yeah. Okay. Caleb could understand that. He glanced up at John and Dean. John looked furious but Dean... Dean looked panicked.

Dean did not panic, Caleb knew that much. This was even worse than he had imagined it to be.

* * *

><p>It was a good thing Sam had been taught to expect the unexpected, otherwise seeing Caleb stride casually into the room might have been the final straw.<p>

As it was, he settled for staring incredulously at the man, even when Caleb spoke to him. Yeah, he looked like crap. He kind of figured that.

But this was not good. Caleb shouldn't be here. He was just another person who was in danger because Sam was a freak and the demon wanted to mess up his entire life. Swallowing down the nausea rising in his throat – his stomach was full-on rebelling by this point, and Sam didn't blame it – Sam turned back to look at Yellow-Eyes.

The demon did not look as though he was about to whisk Sam away, leaving his family and Caleb in relative safety. No, he looked as though he was just warming up.

"You must be Caleb," Yellow-Eyes was saying. Sam blinked back further tears and forced himself to _think_. He couldn't let someone else get hurt because of him. And Caleb would get hurt, it was just a matter of when.

Caleb nodded. "That's me," he agreed. He sounded confident, like always. Sam had always liked Caleb. The man was a confident and capable hunter, without the drill-sergeant manner that John carried with him.

Yellow-Eyes glanced over his shoulder to look at Dean and Dad, amused, and Caleb shot Sam a meaningful look, staring at the ropes wrapped around him. Escape. He had to escape. A part of him didn't want to. Yellow-Eyes would hurt his family if he did.

"You guys don't do things by halves, huh?" Yellow-Eyes was saying, turning back to face Caleb. For once, his attention was not on Sam. He had to take this chance. This entire thing was going downhill so fast, it was ridiculous. If he didn't do something soon, Caleb could die. Yellow-Eyes had promised not to kill his family, but Caleb was fair game.

He alternated his gaze between Yellow-Eyes and the ropes, not wanting to be caught in the act, and began to work on the bonds. Dean had loosened them just enough for him to slide one arm free. Ignoring his aching muscles (being tied up for so long really wasn't fun), Sam started to untie the ropes securing his other arm.

Yellow-Eyes was clearly tiring of small-talk by this point, as he flung his arm out towards Caleb. Sam winced, waiting for the other man to be flung against the wall too, but it never happened. Instead, the arms dealer started choking. His hands clawed at his throat desperately as he made horrible, strangled noises. Sam looked up, eyes wide and panicked, before redoubling his efforts to untie himself.

_Oh God he's gonna die he's gonna die he's gonna die... _Finally, after what felt like hours but couldn't have been over a minute, Sam's other arm came free. It wasn't enough. His legs were still bound to the chair and Caleb needed help now.

Sam's heart was hammering against his chest, the blood – demon blood, he reminded himself – that pounded through his veins feeling like fire. The panic was like a vice, wrapping itself around him tighter and tighter and refusing to release its grip on him. In desperation, Sam threw his hand out like he had seen Yellow-Eyes do so many times before and tried to do something, _anything_.

He pictured himself killing the demon. This thing that had caused him and his family so much misery, this thing that had ruined his life, it had to die. And he could be the one to do it. He had to. These psychic powers had to be good for something, surely.

The pain was near unbearable. Black blurred the edges of his vision. His head pounded. Blood dripped from his nose. And the power, the sheer, raw power... He wasn't sure he could handle it. Yellow-Eyes had stopped his attack on Caleb, though. There was something akin to surprise on his face, and surely that meant Sam was doing something right so he stopped thinking, stopped worrying, just focused on this.

"No! Stop it!" That was Yellow-Eyes, Sam was certain of it. Whatever he was doing, it was working.

And then it happened. The demon threw his head back and a cloud of black smoke came shooting from his mouth and Sam realised that he wasn't killing this thing, he was exorcising it, but surely that was good enough because if anything deserved to go to Hell, it was this thing.

Finally, it stopped. The demon was gone. The host slumped bonelessly to the floor – unconscious or dead, Sam didn't know. Caleb was leaning against the wall, hands massaging his throat. Dean and Dad were released from the demon's hold and fell down from the wall, landing gracelessly on the ground.

It was over.

For a few moments, silence prevailed. Then Dean spoke, his voice shaky. "Sam?"

Sam struggled to stay conscious, but using his powers to get rid of Yellow-Eyes had taken everything he had and every inch of him hurt and it didn't seem worth it to stay awake, to hear his family's disgust because he had been drinking _demon blood_.

The last thing he thought before he succumbed to the threatening darkness was that the demon might be gone, but this whole thing was actually far from over.

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><p><strong>I hope I haven't disappointed anyone with this chapter. Let me know!<strong>

**Oh, and Merry Christmas! :) Or happy holidays, if you don't celebrate Christmas. Is that right? I'm pretty sure that's the politically correct thing to say. Oh well. Just enjoy yourselves :)**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Thanks for all the reviews last chapter! I guess you guys were feeling generous. :P I hope everyone had a good Christmas (or not, you know, if you don't celebrate it) and that you enjoy this chapter! It sort of got away from me and didn't go entirely the way I intended, but hopefully it's okay.  
><strong>

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><p>Holy <em>crap<em>.

"Sam!" Dean scrambled to his feet and ran towards his brother's limp form, his heart racing. What had that demon done to him? And what had _he_ done to the demon? Dean placed a hand on the back of Sam's head, tilting it so that he could see his face.

Even unconscious, Sam looked troubled. The frown on his face really wasn't helped by all of the blood. In short, Sam looked like crap. And he had just fainted. In another situation, he would have teased Sam about that – once he finally woke up, anyway. Now he just wanted to untie Sam, wake him up and get the hell out of Dodge.

"C'mon, Sammy," hissed Dean, tapping his brother's cheek as if that would wake him up. "We gotta get out of here, dude." Sam didn't stir.

Dean threw a glance over his shoulder. Dad was with Caleb, checking that he was okay. After clapping the other hunter on the shoulder, assured that he was fine, Dad moved to check on the demon's host, who was lying, motionless, on the floor. Dean turned his attention back to Sam, trying not to think about what had just gone down here.

Seeing Sam wasn't waking up any time soon, Dean started on the ropes that secured his brother to the chair. His wrists, already free, were raw and red from being tied up for so long and Dean felt another wave of anger. Tugging on the ropes around Sam's ankle with perhaps a little more force than was necessary, Dean found himself wishing the demon was still here so that he could beat the crap out of it.

Nobody messed with Sam. Not unless they wanted their limbs rearranging.

It was a lot easier to be brave now that the demon was gone. Finally freeing both of Sam's feet, Dean lifted his brother's still form from the chair and pointedly didn't think about how helpless he had been just moments ago.

Sam seemed smaller, younger somehow. He always did when he was asleep – or unconscious, in this case. It just made Dean all the more furious that anything could target his brother, that anyone would want to hurt Sam when he was one of the few good things, the few things worth living for in this crappy, messed-up world.

"Gotta tell ya, dude," Dean said, hauling one of Sam's arms around his shoulders so that he was supporting his brother's whole weight, "All that blood? It ain't a good look on you."

Sam did not respond.

"Dean." That was their dad, done inspecting the demon's meatsuit. "Get Sam to the car. We'll meet back at the motel." He didn't meet Dean's eye and he didn't look at Sam at all. Caleb was already outside – Dean could hear the low rumble of the other man's truck as it kicked into gear.

Wordlessly, he obeyed, moving as quickly as he could towards the door that they had burst through just a few minutes ago. Sam groaned softly but didn't wake. "Any time you wanna wake up's fine with me, Sammy. I ain't hauling your scrawny ass all the way back to the motel," Dean informed him, stepping out into the cool night air. It was a lie. They both knew he would.

Sam would be fine, though. Once they were back at the motel, they would check him out, make sure he was okay, and they would roll on to the next town. Caleb had taken care of the werewolf they were originally here to hunt and so there was no reason to stay here. Dean sure as hell wanted to get away.

Half-dragging, half-carrying Sam to the Impala was a challenge. Sam was a skinny kid but what little meat he did have on his bones was all muscle and what with his recent growth spurt, well, he wasn't exactly light as a feather. Sam's bony shoulder dug into his side as Dean moved to open the Impala door before pushing Sam inside as carefully as he could. He didn't think Sam was injured, but he wasn't taking any chances.

In the blink of an eye, Dean was at the other side of the car, pulling open the door and sliding in behind the driver's seat. Man, it was awesome to drive her after years of riding shotgun. He would have time to appreciate it later, though. Dean kicked the car into motion and set off down the road, not waiting for his dad or Caleb to get going first.

He kept one hand on the back of Sam's neck, not quite willing to break contact yet. His brother was slumped in his seat and maybe the back seat would have been a better idea but Dean wanted Sam here, by his side. He looked so _young_. How could anyone want to hurt him? Dean clenched his jaw and focused on the road.

_Shit_, though. Demon blood. Freaking demon blood. And psychic powers. They hadn't exorcised the demon, Dean knew that much. Sam had. Sam had used whatever freaky-ass abilities he possessed to get rid of the demon – at least for now – and surely that was a good thing?

Dad wouldn't see it like that.

Not liking the turn his thoughts were taking, Dean turned up the radio to fill the silence, perhaps making the volume just a little too loud in the hope that it would wake Sam up. Dean needed to hear his brother's voice, needed to know that Sam was okay.

Something told Dean he wouldn't be. It was the way Sam had been, back at the warehouse – the way he avoided Dean's gaze. Hell, he was willing to go with the demon to keep Dean and Dad safe, and they were going to be having a conversation about stupid, self-sacrificing brothers later, chick-flick moments be damned.

No, Sam wouldn't be okay. Physically, he would be fine – at least, Dean hoped he would. But mentally, he didn't know. He didn't know. He didn't know what the demon had been saying to him, how it had been treating him. He didn't know, and that was probably the worst part of this whole thing, because Dean always knew. That was his job. Taking care of Sam, and he had failed.

Sam moaned again, softly, and Dean tore his eyes away from the road to stare at him. "Sammy? You waking up now, dude?"

Another moan. Sam's face crinkled into a frown, eyes squeezed tightly shut. A hand came up to press at his forehead and Dean recognised the signs. Sam had a headache, which probably made sense somehow but Dean couldn't think much past Sam being in pain.

He reached for the radio, turning the volume down, and spoke again. "C'mon, Sammy, open your eyes." He wanted to make some kind of joke, however lame it was, to lighten the mood, but the words stuck in his throat because this was serious.

Reluctantly, his brother opened his eyes. He was clearly in pain, squinting up at his brother and clutching his head. He frowned for a few moments, like he couldn't work out what was going on. "Dean?"

"The one and only, Sammy," Dean agreed, glancing back at the road to make sure he hadn't hit anything. He hadn't, and it turned out the motel wasn't as far away as he had thought, only down the road.

Sam was silent for a few moments, staring at his feet. Dean frowned and pulled into the motel parking lot, determined to find out what was going on in that freaky head of his as soon as they were inside, safe behind salt and sigils.

Dean scrambled out of the car and headed around the other side, opening Sam's door. He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder and Sam blinked at him like he was surprised. "Dean, I-" he started to speak, swinging his legs around to get out of the car, but he cut himself off, swaying in his seat.

"Whoa." Dean had a hold of both shoulders now, trying to make Sam look at him. Sam looked ill. Like, really bad, about to barf over a certain big brother sort of ill. "You gonna hurl?"

Sam scrunched his nose up like he was thinking about it, then shook his head. That was a mistake, apparently, as he groaned again, both hands coming up to grab at his head.

"'S okay, dude," Dean said. "C'mon, let's get you inside." One arm was around his brother's shoulder now, letting Sam lean against him. He closed the car door behind them, locked up and headed for the motel. Baby steps. He could do this. As long as he didn't think about what had happened, how they would have to deal with all of this shit, he would be fine. And, more importantly, _Sam_ would be fine.

Really, that was all that mattered right now.

* * *

><p>Shit.<p>

John sat in his truck for a good five minutes. He watched the tail lights of the Impala disappear into the night and he knew that he should follow, but he just couldn't. He couldn't face his sons, not right now.

Demon blood.

Demon. Blood.

Sam had drank _demon blood_. John cradled his head in his hands, elbows propping him up on the steering wheel. He couldn't do this. All he wanted was to kill the demon. Get revenge. Not this – never this. All he could think was _not Sam, please not Sam_, but it was no good because it was too god-damn late. His son was tainted.

He hated himself as soon as the thought crossed his mind. No father should think like that about his child. He knew that. He did.

So why couldn't he stop?

It wasn't Sam's fault, not really. There was nothing he could have done. Nothing. This demon was so strong, there was nothing any of them could have done without that Colt. Sam couldn't have stopped it. He did everything he could.

None of that changed the truth. Sam had psychic powers. He had drank demon blood. And John didn't know what to do.

Mary would know, if she was here. Mary had always known what her sons needed. She would have been able to handle this, would have been able to look past all of the supernatural crap but John just couldn't do that. His heart ached and he wished for Mary, for her to be here because if she was then none of this would matter, nothing, they could be a family.

That's what it was all about. Family. That was the important thing. But a supernatural creature was a supernatural creature, and what Sam had done back in that warehouse was decidedly supernatural. It had been Sam who exorcised the demon. It was gone, at least for now. Sam had bought them some time, but it came at much too high a price.

God, he was never gonna be able to look at Sam the same way again. He wanted to. He wanted to pretend none of this had happened, but he couldn't.

John had always seen things in black and white. There was the supernatural crap – evil, killing people, needed to be ganked ASAP. Then there were people, the non-supernatural – occasionally sick and twisted, but generally good. And they didn't need killing.

Sam didn't fit into either category, John knew that much, because he was not evil. He was just a kid. He couldn't be evil. He could fight evil, sure – John had taught him well. But he would never _be_ evil. Would he?

Demon blood, though. Demon blood was not good. Sam was a danger – if not to others, then to himself – and John didn't know what to do with that, how to handle it without hurting his son. He couldn't trust himself to say anything to Sam without hurting him, and that was the killer, the thought of hurting Sammy.

Dean wouldn't hurt Sam. John knew that much. So while John was sitting here in this damn truck, kind of maybe a little bit blaming _Sam_ for this, only not, really, Dean would be making sure Sam was okay. That was a small comfort, but it hurt knowing that he could never provide the same kind of comfort for Sam. After tonight, he didn't even know if he wanted to.

Because what the hell had Sam been doing? Demon blood, psychic powers? And okay, maybe it wasn't really his fault, John didn't know, but Sam had used his psychic powers. He had embraced his darker side (because supernatural powers was definitely dark stuff, John knew that much) and John didn't think he'd be able to treat his youngest in the same way after this.

John wanted to forget this had happened. God, he wanted it _so badly_. He wanted to be able to look at his son like he hadn't been kidnapped by the demon that killed their mother and had then survived.

Because he _had_ survived; the demon hadn't wanted Sam dead. He had just wanted Sam. And that scared him more than all of this other crap. Sam being in the hands of that thing, it killed him. And Sam had been willing to just go with that thing, so that they would live.

But what if that hadn't been it? What if Sam _wanted_ to go with the demon, wanted to know more about his psychic side? John didn't know, didn't know what the demon had said to him, done to him – how it had manipulated him.

He didn't know what to think, but he knew he had to get moving, so he just started up the truck and headed for the motel, trying not to think about how he was going to face his sons when he got there.

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><p><strong>So, there we go! Let me know how you feel about this chapter :) Also, this is my last post of 2011, which is kind of cool. Just sayin'. :P<strong>


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: I'm not particularly happy with this chapter, but I wanted to post something. Let me know what you think, and I hope you're all having a good new year so far! :) Next chapter will probably wrap things up, but I'm not entirely sure.  
><strong>

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><p>Sam hurt all over. His muscles ached, his head pounded and his stomach was churning. It was taking all of his self-restraint to stop himself hurling on Dean's shoes. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was knowing what came next.<p>

Dean would want to know what had happened. So would Dad. He would have to tell them how he had _agreed_ to drinking the demon blood, had used his powers willingly... he'd have to look at them and see the disgust in their eyes, see them exchange glances and wonder what had happened to him, why he couldn't be more like them.

And that was a question he asked himself a lot. Some days, after a particularly nasty fight with his dad, Sam wondered if it would be better just to act like Dean. His dad loved Dean, unconditionally. Sam had never doubted that his dad loved him too, just... not quite as much. Now, though, Sam was quite certain his dad hated him. Back in the warehouse, he couldn't even look at Sam – like he was ashamed.

Distantly, he was aware that he was being seated on one of the thin beds and he felt Dean sink down onto the mattress, beside him. His brother hadn't moved his arm from around Sam's shoulders. It felt nice, like love and protection. Sam was silent, enjoying the moment and trying not to think about the inevitable aftermath of what had just happened.

Then Dean was shining a light into his eyes and Sam scrunched his face up, trying to pull away, but Dean held onto his shoulder firmly. "Sorry, Sammy. Gotta check for concussion. You know the drill." Sam swallowed an irritated sigh – he hadn't even hit his head – and let Dean go through the motions.

Once Dean was finally satisfied that Sam was okay, he sat back down beside Sam, shoulder to shoulder. Sam didn't get it. Dean wasn't shouting, wasn't acting like he hated Sam. Maybe he was waiting for Dad to get back.

Sam stared down at his feet. He had spent the past week wishing for his family, but now that he was back with them he didn't want to be. He didn't want to hear their rejection, because Winchesters did not drink demon blood and use psychic powers. Winchesters weren't normal, but they certainly weren't supernatural freaks either. Now, though, Sam was definitely a freak. And he hated it.

He couldn't take the silence any more. "Dean?"

Dean jolted a little, like Sam had shocked him out of his thoughts. "Yeah?" He glanced down at Sam, shoulder pressed even closer to his, and Sam didn't get it because Dean should be disgusted with him.

"'M sorry." The words were spoken softly but to Sam, nothing had ever felt heavier. He wanted the bed to open up and swallow him whole, take him away from this, away from his family because they deserved so much more, so much better than him.

Dean frowned. "What?"

Sam couldn't bring himself to look up. "You know... about the demon blood, and everything."

"I know what you meant." Dean twisted himself so that he was facing Sam. "Why are you apologising?"

Sam knew Dean could ask stupid questions sometimes, but this had to top them all. "Demon blood, Dean," he repeated. "It's... wrong." It was the best word he could come up with.

"S'not your fault, dude." Dean seemed different, somehow. Detached. Like he couldn't quite believe what had happened, like he didn't want to.

Sam wrinkled his nose, confused. "But you and Dad... that thing almost killed you."

"Yeah, and you stopped it." Dean placed a hand under Sam's chin, lifting it so that Sam was forced to look at him. Dean looked freaked and Sam could still see some of the panic from the warehouse in his expression, but he was doing a hell of a lot better than Sam. "I'm not saying it didn't freak me out, 'cause believe me, it did, but you stopped it killing us, Sam. Surely that's a good thing." It sounded like he was trying to convince himself, now, not just Sam.

"But..." Sam frowned, confused and trying so hard not to get his hopes up. "Don't you... I mean, I thought... you don't hate me?"

Dean's jaw dropped, and Sam was reminded forcefully of the time several weeks ago when Sam had asked Dean if he blamed him for their mother's death. "No," was all Dean said. "_No_, Sammy. I could never hate you. _Never_." There was so much conviction in his brother's tone that Sam couldn't help but believe him.

And just like that, the churning in his stomach and the pounding in his head and the ache in his muscles didn't matter quite so much because Dean didn't hate him. It didn't change some things, though. "I'm a _freak_, Dean," he snapped, irritated to feel tears welling in his eyes.

"Hey!" Now Dean _did_ sound angry. "You are _not_ a freak, ya hear me?" His hands had moved to Sam's shoulders, gripping so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Sam ignored the twinge of pain that it caused, staring at his brother like he was crazy.

"I have psychic powers, Dean. I drank demon blood. I'm pretty sure that makes me a freak." He blinked furiously, determined not to cry, not now, and suddenly Dean's arms were wrapped around him, holding him tightly like Dean never wanted to let go.

"It wasn't your fault, Sam." Dean rested his chin on top of Sam's head, murmuring into Sam's hair.

"Doesn't stop me being a freak," Sam muttered into his brother's chest.

Dean's arms tightened around him. "Stop it. You're not a freak. You saved all of our asses back there, dude."

Sam made a non-committal noise because if it hadn't been for him, they wouldn't have been there in the first place. He thought maybe he should mention how he had agreed to the psychic powers and the demon blood, how it really was his fault, how he had asked for them to be there, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not now. Later, he would do it. He would.

For now, though, everything was okay. Their dad would be back any minute and Sam would have to face him, too – and Dad wouldn't be nearly as accepting as Dean – but for now, everything was okay.

* * *

><p>Caleb pulled up to the motel several minutes after Sam and Dean, but he remained inside his truck. He was giving Sam and Dean time to talk and waiting for John to show up. Caleb knew he should probably leave, his work here being done, but he couldn't. Not right away.<p>

Sam had saved his life. There was no denying that. Sam had stopped that son of a bitch from choking him – but he had used psychic powers to do so. Psychic powers were... not normal, to say the least. It freaked Caleb out. He had always liked Sam, never had anything against the kid, but this? This wasn't right. He didn't know what to think. He just couldn't link demon blood and psychic powers to the kid that he knew.

The bottom line was, he was alive because of Sam. If he focused on that, he was fine. He looked no further than that, didn't think about the freaky-ass stuff that Sam could do.

Hopefully, John would view things the same way, though Caleb seriously doubted it. John had raised his kids to fight the supernatural, not become it. Caleb was John's friend, sure, but he didn't know the man well enough to know how he would react to _this_.

He would have to settle for waiting in the parking lot, ready to intervene if he had to. Because while his hunter senses might be tingling, Sam was just a kid. A hunter, sure, but below that he was a scared kid who needed his family. John and Dean would see that, surely.

Hell, maybe he was wrong. Maybe they would all accept this with ease and go riding off into the sunset in that awesome car of theirs (yeah, okay, Caleb loved their car). He didn't think so, though. Caleb was many things, but stupid wasn't one of them.

* * *

><p>By the time John pulled into the parking lot, he still had no idea what he was going to do. A part of him didn't want to go inside, didn't want to face Sam and Dean, but a bigger part of him needed to. He had to make sure his sons were okay.<p>

Grimly, he stepped out of his truck and slammed the door shut, glancing around instinctively, checking the area was safe. Caleb was still in his truck and John was grateful for that. He needed to be alone with his sons, just for now.

The motel door swung open easily and John stepped over the salt line, his eye immediately drawn to the bed where Sam and Dean were sitting. Dean had his arms wrapped around Sam, like he was trying to protect him but it was too late for that now. They had both failed to protect Sam, failed to keep him away from the demon and his son had paid the price.

He shut the door behind him, still silent. Sam had pulled away from Dean now, was staring at John with wide, apprehensive eyes, and John didn't know what to say. John clenched his jaw, looking directly at Dean because he couldn't look at Sam, not now, not without being reminded of the demon. "You boys okay?" He was asking Dean, and they all knew it.

Dean nodded. "Yes, sir," he replied tightly.

John blew out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Good," he said. "That's good." Nobody spoke for a few moments. John flung a sideways glance at Sam. The boy looked like he was working himself up to say something. John knew he should be the one to speak first. He should be reassuring his sons that everything was okay.

Only everything wasn't okay. Everything was so far from okay right now. Rage welled up inside him, burning hot, and John had the sudden urge to punch something. This wasn't _fair_. Of course, very few things in his life were fair, or indeed good at all, but if there was one good thing in John's life, it was his sons. He and Sam might fight, but he still loved the kid.

And he was tainted. He had demon blood inside him and John felt his fury swing in Sam's direction. Demon blood. The kid had drank demon blood. He couldn't have held out just a little longer, waited until he and Dean arrived? Apparently not.

"Dad, I-"

"What the hell, Sam?" John cut his youngest off angrily. "Demon blood?" The anger throbbed inside him, pounding through his veins and he knew he shouldn't be saying this, tried to reign in his anger but it didn't work and more words were spewing from his mouth, words he didn't want to say. "I taught you better than that, Sam. God dammit!"

Sam was looking at him with wide, terrified eyes and John couldn't take this any more. "That stuff's dangerous, Sam, you don't _drink_ it, you stay the hell away from it! I... dammit, I can't do this," he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. Dean looked furious and John couldn't blame him, felt like hitting himself too. Quickly, he turned on his heel and headed out of the motel room, back across the parking lot.

God, he was a dick. He knew it was no excuse, but he had just been so scared, terrified that Sam had been permanently damaged by that thing, and somehow his anger had directed itself at Sam. Sam wasn't at fault here. His sons knew that. They did.

He would make sure Sam knew he was sorry later, but for now, Dean could take care of it. Dean always took care of it. They would be fine.

John groaned lowly, leaning back against the door of his truck and trying to pull himself together. He scrubbed his hand down his face again and looked up to see Dean storming towards him. He was clearly furious and John figured he knew why.

His suspicions were confirmed when Dean made it over, up close and personal and looking like he was trying hard not to slam John into the truck. Things didn't get any better when Dean finally snarled out, "I think you and me should have a little chat, _Dad_."

Oh, yeah. Things were definitely not any better.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews last chapter :) I'm not sure if I responded to all of them, so I'm sorry if I didn't. You're not missing much, anyway. :P Well, here's chapter 14! Hopefully it doesn't disappoint.**

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><p>There had not been many occasions where Dean was really, truly, furious with his dad, but this was one such occasion.<p>

What the hell had Dad been thinking, yelling at Sam like that? Actually blaming him for what had happened, shouting at him when he was in such a fragile state? Dean closed his eyes, willing himself not to remember the wounded expression on Sam's face, or the way his shoulders had slumped in defeat when their dad stormed out of the room.

"Dad hates me," he had said, so softly that Dean could barely hear him. That had been the final straw, the trigger that made Dean so very pissed off. He had hurried to assure Sam that that wasn't true, but after what had just happened Dean could see why he'd think that. Hell, he wasn't even sure that Sam wasn't right. Either way, Sam had remained unconvinced.

After telling Sam to go take a shower or something – because he really stank and this was probably gonna take a while – Dean had headed outside, towards his dad who, surprisingly, had not yet left. Because wasn't that their dad's speciality? Leaving?

It was taking all of his self control not to hit the older man right now. Dean opened his eyes again and was hit with a fresh wave of fury. John had never been an amazing father, but Dean was used to that, had accepted it long ago and as long as he didn't think too hard about it it didn't matter, not while he had Sam. So no, John was not an amazing father, but Dean had never thought of him as one who would treat Sam like this, either.

"Dean, listen-" Dad was saying, and that wasn't doing anything to help Dean's anger because he couldn't fucking listen to the man, not while Sam was in the motel room thinking that his dad hated him. That wasn't right.

"No, _you_ listen," snarled Dean, fists clenched tightly at his sides. His dad looked a little surprised, then angry, but there was something else in his eyes, too, almost like resignation. Convinced he was seeing things, Dean continued. "Where the_ hell_ do you get off, huh? None of that crap was Sam's fault. He thinks you hate him, do you even _realise_ that? Do you even know what you've done?"

Dean had never torn into his dad like that, never let his true feelings show, but John had crossed a line back there in the motel room.

John's jaw clenched. "He knows I don't hate him," the older man said, but he looked weary, shoulders slumped. It didn't cool Dean's temper.

"The hell he does, Dad! He thinks you hate him and I don't blame him. It's bad enough that he blames himself for everything that happened, without you blaming him too." He was on a roll now, the words falling from his tongue before he even knew what he was going to say. If Dean had been calmer, he might have stopped to think about how yelling at Dad wasn't the best idea, because John expected unquestioning obedience.

And up until now, Dean had delivered that. Not any more, though. Not until John had apologised – properly – to Sam, and made sure the kid knew he didn't hate him. There was a tiny, niggling thought in the back of his mind that said John just might hate Sam, though, and before Dean knew what he was doing he had asked John, "You... you _don't_ hate him, right?"

"Of course I don't," John snapped instantly, looking irritated that Dean had even considered it which was just stupid because how could Dean not have considered it, with what had been said back there? "I don't hate him. Sam knows that, he's just upset."

"He's got a damn good reason to be upset, but that ain't it," Dean returned harshly, wondering if anything he was saying was getting through to his father. "The kid genuinely thinks you hate him."

Perhaps it was what Dean had said, perhaps it was the way he said it, but John hesitated. He looked less sure of himself, less like the drill sergeant Dean had come to know him as. Emboldened by this slight progress, Dean continued. "Now, you're gonna go back in there and you're gonna apologise to Sam until he knows you don't hate him. I don't care what it takes, you make sure he knows."

In another situation, Dean wouldn't have gotten away with this kind of attitude, but right now it was exactly what his dad needed to start fixing this situation. The older man nodded, suddenly looking immensely weary as he ran a hand down his face. "I... I didn't mean any of it, Dean. I just – it scared me, ya know?"

Dean gritted his teeth. He knew his dad didn't mean it, deep down, but it was still hard to accept that his dad, the man he had looked up to his entire life, could lose control so easily – hurt Sam so easily. "Not me you need to be telling, Dad," he answered at last. John sighed and nodded, glancing back at the motel room door.

"I know."

* * *

><p>It wasn't like he hadn't been expecting that. He had. His Dad hated him. It was okay. He could deal with it – he <em>could<em>.

Or so he had thought. Apparently it was even worse than he had imagined. There was some kind of physical pain ripping his chest in two, making it difficult to breathe although that might have been because he was sobbing. He wasn't proud of it, but Sam was definitely having a complete meltdown. Still, the shower was as good a place as any to have one.

He supposed, deep down, a tiny part of him had assumed his dad would still love him, even if he was a freak. A stupid, naïve part of him. Maybe Dean didn't hate him, but his dad sure did. What if John's rant had changed Dean's mind, though? What if they both hated him?

Another sob tore itself from his throat, a few more tears squeezing from his eyes. The water, gradually losing its warmth, pounded down on his back. It washed away the surface dirt but Sam still felt filthy. He was a freak, a horrible, nasty _freak_. His dad hadn't used that word, exactly, but Sam could see it in his eyes, and his dad was always right about these things. His dad knew everything about the supernatural.

The water was now ice cold, and Sam took that as his cue to leave the shower. As much as he would have liked to stay in there and attempt to drown himself, Sam knew that wasn't the answer. He was a Winchester – or he had been, at any rate. He had to suck it up, be a man, accept that he was in the wrong and that his father hated him.

The thought of his family hating him was crippling, though, and he doubled over as a burning sensation tore through his stomach, leaving him breathless. That wasn't right. He was only hurt emotionally, why was he in pain? He shouldn't be, should he?

Demon blood.

It was the only thing Sam could think of. He was pretty sure you could get addicted to demon blood – maybe that had happened to him. Surely he would have noticed, though? Maybe he still had some in his system. Either way, the thought terrified him and he knew it wouldn't exactly put him back in his dad's good books.

The original pain had subsided now, though, leaving a hollow, prickling feeling in the pit of his stomach. Feeling good enough to get moving, Sam dried himself off and slipped into fresh clothes, feeling better – physically at least – for being clean.

He would have to leave now, of course. His family wouldn't want him now, Dad at least. Dean and Dad were a team, though, weren't they? Dean had assured Sam that he didn't hate him, but that didn't mean he wouldn't leave him if Dad told him to.

Hair still dripping, Sam stepped out of the bathroom into the main room just as the door swung open. John stood in the doorway with Dean at his shoulder, and Sam didn't think he'd ever _seen_ Dean so mad. It was kind of scary. There was silence for a moment as they each stood frozen in their own doorway before John stepped over the salt line, Dean right behind him.

Sam hesitated, nearly running straight back into the bathroom and locking himself in. It would be so easy to just hide away from all of this. "Hey, Sammy," Dean said after a moment. His expression was softer when he looked at Sam, less dangerous. Now Sam was just confused. "We wanna talk to you."

Blinking, Sam replied, "Yeah?" He didn't know what to make of this. Nobody was shouting. He had expected more shouting, like there had been before John stormed out into the parking lot.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed. "Ain't that right, Dad?"

John swallowed, rubbing his jaw almost nervously. "Yeah." He strode across the room towards Sam and before he could stop himself the teenager shrank away, terrified because he couldn't do it, couldn't listen to his family condemn him.

A strange expression flickered across his dad's face, something akin to sadness, and in an instant Dean was pushing past him, standing in front of Sam. "Listen to me, dude," Dean said lowly, hands firmly on Sam's shoulders. "We're just gonna talk, okay? Dad didn't mean what he said before. He wants to fix things." He glanced over his shoulder at John, expression darkening.

Sam didn't understand. How could his dad want to fix things? Sam had fucked up, plain and simple, with the demon blood. Surely there was no way to fix this.

"I'll be right here, Sammy," Dean added, and even now that was a comforting thought and Sam found himself nodding his head. Okay. He could do this... whatever _this_ was. And then Dean stepped to the side, next to Sam, leaning against the wall with his shoulder pressed reassuringly against Sam's.

Sam stared at his feet as his dad stepped forward so that there was about a foot between them. John hesitated, sighing softly as if he was trying to decide where to start. "Sam..." he said at last. "I'm... I'm sorry."

That was strange. Even after all of Dean's assurances, Sam hadn't truly believed his dad would apologise. What did he have to apologise for? He hated Sam for a reason, surely. "All of that crap with the demon blood, it wasn't your fault, kid." Sam didn't look up, trying to detect any hint of disbelief in John's voice. "I shouldn't have said those things, Sammy. I don't blame you."

Sam glanced up, chewing on his lip anxiously. His dad's face showed only sincerity and Sam managed to whisper, "Don't you hate me?"

John didn't look surprised, but he did look saddened. "No, Sammy," he said quietly, closing the gap between them and grasping Sam's shoulders like Dean had just minutes before. "I don't hate you, I never meant to make you think that. I swear." He lifted Sam's chin, gently forcing Sam to meet his eyes. It struck Sam how very similar his father's methods of comforting were to Dean's. "I _swear_, Sam. I don't say it a lot, but I love you. Both of you. You boys are what keeps me going."

Sam swallowed down the lump in his throat. He hadn't been expecting that. John looked slightly uncomfortable now, as though he hadn't expected it either and was now worried about Sam's reaction. Sam wanted to tell his dad that he loved him too, but the words were lost on the way to his mouth and instead he only asked, "So you don't... I mean, you don't think I'm a freak?" He paused, wondering whether to continue, but added, "I thought you might... want to hunt me."

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. John's eyes widened. "No," he whispered. "No, no. _No_." Suddenly, he pulled Sam close into a hug. Sam hadn't hugged his dad in years, had very little physical contact with him at all, and he had almost forgotten how to react to it. "I'd never hurt you, Sammy, never." He glanced sideways at Dean, who Sam realised was still right next to him. "Either of you." His arms tightened around Sam. "Don't you ever say that, don't you even think it. I could never do that to you."

Sam felt some of the tension drain from his body. His dad didn't hate him. He loved him. Sam believed him, had no reason to doubt him, not now. Not about this. His dad wouldn't lie about this. If he hated him, he would have said it up front. Still, there was more that needed to be said.

"I'm sorry," murmured Sam. "For the demon blood."

"Don't be sorry, Sam," John ordered gently. "There wasn't anything you could have done. Hell, you saved Caleb's life."

Sam felt his blood run cold. He'd forgotten about Caleb. "Is he... is he okay?" Caleb was a hunter, through and through, and the whereas the thought had once made him feel safe, he now felt hugely vulnerable. Caleb might want to hurt him. The older man had been like a brother to him on occasion and the thought of being hurt by him was a scary one.

"He's fine," John said. "Thanks to you." Sam nodded numbly, thankful at least for that.

John pulled away. His eyes looked suspiciously bright, but Sam had to be seeing things because John didn't cry. "Are we good, Sammy?" Missing the physical contact already, Sam nodded and John breathed out a huge sigh of relief. "Good. That's – that's good. I'm gonna go give Bobby a call." He ruffled Sam's hair – another thing he hadn't done in years – and headed back outside.

Dean knocked his shoulder against Sam's, affectionately. "Told you so."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** **Again, thank you for the reviews last chapter! :) You guys are great. I was cutting it pretty close writing this chapter, but here it is. I've taken a few liberties with exactly how Sam's withdrawal goes down, but hopefully you still enjoy it!**

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><p>"So you're sure Sam's okay?"<p>

"I told you, Bobby. He's fine." John sighed heavily, leaning back against the hood of his truck. "Physically, anyway." He didn't mention what had just gone down in the motel room. He didn't need Bobby shouting at him, too.

"What exactly _happened_, John?" Bobby's voice crackled down the line and for a second John considered pretending that he had a bad connection, just hanging up. Bobby wouldn't buy it, though.

He wasn't sure he could trust Bobby, though, not with this. He was one of the closest – hell, one of the only – friends that John had, but if he found out about the demon blood then Sam could be in serious danger. And nothing came before his sons. John sighed again. This was so messed up. He might need Bobby's help, though. There were things he didn't know about demon blood and psychic powers, and he had to keep track of the Colt.

"John?" pressed Bobby after a minute or so of silence, and John made his decision.

"I... he... the demon... it gave him blood, Bobby. It fed him demon blood." He hated the way his voice shook with every word it took to deliver that horrible news.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the phone. "It what?"

"You heard," snapped John, unable to repeat himself, to admit again that such a thing had happened to his son.

"Yeah... kinda hoped I was wrong," admitted Bobby gruffly. John shifted impatiently against the truck. "Is that it?"

"Not really." John hesitated, hearing only silence on the line and knowing he had Bobby's full attention. "It gave him psychic powers. He exorcised the damn thing without saying a word."

There was a low whistle on Bobby's end of the phone. "Damn."

"Yeah." There was another pause. "So, uh, what do you know about demon blood? Is Sam gonna be alright?"

"Thought ya said he was fine," Bobby groused, but John heard him moving around, searching the seemingly endless piles of books that scattered his house.

John shrugged, even though Bobby wouldn't see it. "He seems fine, yeah. But I don't know... I've never dealt with this kind of thing before, Bobby," he said, hating how scared he sounded all of a sudden. "I don't know if it has, I dunno, side effects or something. Anything could happen."

There was a long pause. "Bobby?" prompted John.

"Well, yeah," Bobby said after a moment. "I do know a little bit about it. Enough to know that it's damn dangerous. Addictive, even."

"Addictive?" John repeated, hoping desperately that he had misheard.

Bobby made a noise of vague confirmation over the sound of flicking pages. "From the sounds of it, he wasn't dosed up with it for too long... that's something, at least. I'll see what I can find," the older man said, still rustling papers that John hoped would contain some useful information.

"Alright," John said finally. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby didn't acknowledge the thank you. "Just make sure your boys are okay, John. And try and keep it that way." _For once_. John nodded to himself.

"Yeah." There was another pause and John pushed himself away from the truck, suddenly needing to make sure his sons really were okay, were both still there. "Call me when you find something, Bobby."

"You got it." A click, and then Bobby was gone. It took John a few moments to realise he hadn't even asked about the Colt. It didn't matter now, though. He had to check on his boys.

John slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket, feeling both better and worse after his conversation with Bobby. It was good to have Bobby's support, to know the older man was doing something to help, but he had also opened his eyes to something John hadn't wanted to see – the possibility of addiction, the possibility that Sam might not be out of the woods just yet.

He took large strides across the parking lot and pushed open the motel door only to see a seriously unwelcome sight.

Sam was doubled over in pain, a thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead whilst Dean attempted to comfort him and find out what was wrong at the same time, panic evident in his tone.

"Sammy? What's wrong? Come on, talk to me, man!" The older boy glanced back, meeting John's gaze and looking, if possible, even more terrified. John gave him a questioning look before he could stop himself, even though Dean clearly had no idea what was going on.

Dean shrugged helplessly, returning his full attention to a gasping Sam.

So no, Dean might not know what was going on, but John sure did.

Sam was going through withdrawal.

* * *

><p>Pain.<p>

Sam had been in pain before, sure. There was that time when he was seven and he got hit by a car in a dirty motel parking lot, and then there was that hunt where he broke his leg when he was eleven, or even that time when he was thirteen and he almost drowned and he felt like his lungs were on fire. So no, Sam was no stranger to pain.

But this was worse than any of those.

It wasn't quite the same kind of pain, but it was enough to have Sam doubled over, gasping and clutching his stomach as his muscles cramped up and white dots danced in front of his eyes. Over the roaring in his ears, he thought he could hear Dean's voice, but he couldn't be sure.

Eventually, the pain subsided enough for Sam to look up and realise that Dad was now back in the room and that Sam had been clutching Dean with an iron grip, knuckles white. It took him a moment or two before he finally managed to gasp out, "M'okay."

"What the hell was that, Sam?" demanded Dean, clinging to his brother just as tightly as Sam was holding onto him. Distantly, Sam was aware of himself being guided towards one of the beds, pushed down so that he was sitting on the mattress with Dean and Dad standing in front of him. They looked worried. Sam squinted up at them.

"I, uh..." He didn't know how to say it, didn't know how to tell them that the whole demon blood thing hadn't passed yet, didn't even know if that was what this was.

"It's the demon blood," his dad's deep voice interrupted. Sam's eyes widened in surprise, although he supposed he should have known because there wasn't a lot his dad didn't know, really. "It's addictive."

Oh, crap. Now Dad knew. That was exactly what they didn't need right now. It would only serve to send his dad back into a rage like earlier.

Dean frowned, turning his head to look at John. "What d'you mean, addictive? How addictive?"

John hesitated. "I'm not sure. Bobby's looking into it."

Sam shivered, suddenly feeling very cold and unable to shake the hunger that had settled in his stomach. It was relentless, clawing at his insides, demanding food, demanding _blood_. The world shrunk until all he could feel was the hunger attacking the hollow empty cave of his stomach. "No," he told it hoarsely. "No more."

He was jolted back into reality by Dean's hand on his shoulder. "Sam," he said. "You're fine, okay? We got you out of there, Sammy. No more blood."

"Promise?" Sam whispered, voice rough. His stomach rebelled fiercely at Dean's words, cramping up until Sam was clutching at it and whimpering, trying desperately to get the pain under control. Once it had faded, he glanced up to see Dean inches from his face, gripping his shoulder like he never wanted to let go.

"I promise, Sammy."

"That's it. We're going to Bobby's." That was Dad, not even trying to disguise the worry in his tone and that just made Sam even more anxious because if his dad was scared, things were definitely bad. "You boys take the Impala. I'll get the bags, let Caleb know what's happening." He sounded more in control now that they had a plan and Sam allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, let Dean pull Sam's arm over his shoulder to stop him keeling over.

They were in the Impala within a few minutes, Dean in the driver's seat with Sam beside him. Sam wondered vaguely why Dean was driving but it didn't seem important, not with the hurt, pain, _need _throbbing through his veins. He was so hungry. He needed blood.

Dean was watching him like Sam would disappear if he looked away. Sam shivered again, feeling both cold and hot and sort of aware that his skin was like fire to touch and that his hair was sticking to his forehead, slick with sweat and suddenly he was hit by a wave of hopelessness, knowing that this still wasn't over, there was still more to come. "_Dean_," he managed at last, his voice a pitiful mixture of whimpering and panicking.

Instantly, Dean's arms were around him and a small part of Sam's mind noted that this was probably the most they had hugged in one day but that part of him was quickly silenced by Dean's voice. "It'll be okay, Sammy, I swear. We're going to Bobby's, he'll know what to do. You're gonna be fine." He was trying to convince himself now, Sam knew, but the words made him feel a little better anyway.

There was a rumble as a huge black truck pulled out of the parking lot, and Dean pulled away, starting up the car. Sam blinked, confused. His head felt like it was filled with cotton wool, even while his senses were on fire. "That's Dad's new truck," Dean explained as the Impala jerked into motion. "Ugly, ain't it?"

He was trying to distract Sam. It was a good try, and Sam decided to help him along. Anything to keep his mind off things. "Yeah. What's he got that for?"

Dean shrugged, turning the car out onto the main road. "Some hillbilly sold it to him. I don't even know, man. Still, it means I get to drive the Impala." He flashed his brother a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes and Sam returned with one that probably looked equally fake.

"How far is it to Bobby's?" Sam found himself asking, just for something to say because the constant ache, the clawing, the hunger, wasn't leaving him alone and he had to distract himself, had to try not to think about it at least for a little while.

Dean thought about it for a few moments. "We're not too far out. Couple of hours, probably."

"Okay." Sam exhaled heavily. He could do that. A couple of hours. Bobby would know what to do. Bobby had a huge library. There would be something in there that could stop this, tell them how to fix it.

And suddenly he was hit with a fresh wave of pain and he thought maybe a few tears squeezed from his eyes – angry, hurt, frustrated tears – but he didn't know, wasn't sure of anything right now.

"Sam! Hey-" and that was Dean, wasn't it, and if there was one thing that Sam was sure of it was Dean, and he could handle this, breathe out, forget about the demon blood, do it for Dean, "-breathe, okay? You're okay, Sammy, I'm here, you're fine." And that said it all. _I'm here. You're fine. _And as long as Dean was around, Sam would always be fine.

The journey to Bobby's was prolonged slightly by the numerous stops they had to make because Sam had started to freak out again. By the time they got to Bobby's, Sam was soaked in sweat and shaking and if he had been crying, well, neither brother was going to mention it.

_God_, but he was hungry. So hungry. He needed blood, needed it like he had never needed anything in his life and it became a mantra, repeated over and over in his head – blood, blood, blood. Even the self-loathing he felt for himself wasn't enough to deter him. He needed blood. He _needed_ it.

They pulled into Bobby's salvage yard just behind their dad but Sam hardly noticed, not able to think past the need that scraped against the inside of his stomach. "Dean," he blurted at last, "Dean, _please_, I need it, I can't, _Dean_-"

"Hey." Dean appeared in front of him, hands cupping Sam's cheeks and forcing him to look right at his big brother. "You don't need anything, Sam, ya hear me? You're gonna be fine, we can beat this." His face showed only conviction, the absolute certainty that only an older brother could manage, and Sam found himself nodding.

He could do this. Dean was here. Sam would be okay. The hunger didn't subside, though, and Sam sensed that this really wasn't some mind-over-matter sort of thing. It took everything he had not to break down and sob right there in the Impala, instead climbing out of his side and standing on wobbly legs that threatened to give out on him almost instantly, but then Dean was at his side, making sure he didn't fall. Like he always was.

A few feet in front, their dad clambered out of his truck. Caleb was no where in sight and Sam assumed he had gone to join Joshua – his usual hunting partner. He could feel only relief; Caleb was his friend, had been like a brother to him on more than one occasion, but Sam didn't feel right around anyone who wasn't family right now.

The unusual moment of clarity faded as quickly as it had arrived, and Sam lapsed back into the already familiar feelings of fear and desperation just as Bobby came striding down from the steps of the large house. He couldn't stop the panic that clenched his heart, then, because he knew what was coming next.

It was detoxing time.


	16. Chapter 16

**A****/N: Judging by the lack of reaction last week, I'm guessing the whole withdrawal thing wasn't a popular turn of events. :P That's unfortunate, because this chapter focuses solely on that. Still, this story is coming towards the end - if all goes according to plan, next week's should be the last chapter. We'll see. Anyway, thank you to those of you who _did_ review - I hope you enjoy!**

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><p>Bobby didn't think the Winchesters would ever stop scaring the crap out of him.<p>

From the day John had showed up on his doorstep, Bobby had known the Winchesters were different. Trouble. If only he had known how much trouble... actually, it probably wouldn't have made a lot of difference. Bobby loved those boys like his own and if John was an ass half of the time, well, they had bigger problems than hurt feelings to deal with.

So, yeah. Bobby cared a hell of a lot about the Winchesters, which is why when they showed up on his doorstep with a pale, shaky Sam who was obviously on the brink of tears, he said nothing, just stepped aside to allow them into his house.

Bobby had seen Sam sick before, but never like this. It was the demon blood that was doing it, he knew that, but it didn't make it any less worrying. He had been researching demon blood and its effects, but there wasn't an awful lot to go on. Very few people, it seemed, had ever actually drank demon blood, and there in lay the problem.

This, of course, meant they would have to wing it. John and Dean wouldn't be pleased, but it was all they could do. And they had to do something – Sam was clearly suffering, leaning heavily against his older brother one moment and kicking and fighting to get free the next. Dean wasn't much better off, if the expression on his face whenever he had to hold his little brother back was anything to go by. He lowered Sam down onto the sofa, sitting so that Sam's head was in Dean's lap.

Bobby glanced at John, jerking his head in the direction of the kitchen. John nodded tightly and followed the older man into the next room, shutting the door behind him. "What did you find out?" John's tone was urgent, his question straight to the point.

He wasn't going to like what Bobby had to say. "Nothin'," the older man replied. "Not many people have been fed demon blood before, ya know."

John did not look impressed. "Nothing?"

"That's what I said," huffed Bobby, leaning back against the kitchen counter.

"What are we gonna do, then?" John scrubbed a hand down his face and for a second Bobby caught a glimpse of the man beneath it all – the father, not the drill sergeant. He softened slightly.

"I dunno, John. We'll figure something out." And he meant it, because seeing Sam Winchester suffer was not something he wanted a front-row seat to. There was a pause as both men thought. Eventually, Bobby spoke again, rubbing a hand across the stubble on his chin. "I guess until we know more, we gotta treat it like any other drug."

John looked up. "What?"

Bobby shrugged. "I mean, it's an addiction. I figure we deal with it the same way other people deal with addiction."

"Which is _what_, exactly?" John demanded. Bobby was just grateful that the younger man hadn't started on how demon blood was hardly a regular drug, how they could do Sam more harm than good.

Truthfully, Bobby didn't know. He'd never dealt with any kind of addiction before, and his own issues with alcohol – not that he had too big a problem, he always stayed sober enough for hunting – weren't something he had any desire to confront. Still, they had to try. "I don't know. We'll just have to try and keep Sam calm, support him through this. None of your disappearin' to chase after some other lead."

John glared at him. "You think I'd leave them while Sam's like this?"

Bobby wouldn't have put it past him, but thought it was probably best not to say so. Instead, he shrugged non-committally. "Let's just go see your boys. Goin' cold turkey on demon blood ain't gonna be easy, I'm guessin'."

Ordinarily, John would have made some kind of comment that was bound to set off another argument, but Bobby assumed he was too worried for that, because he simply pushed past into the next room.

Dean had a tight grip on each of Sam's wrists. The younger boy was bucking and fighting, his face scrunched in frustration. "Dean, _please_," he choked out, and Bobby felt his heart twist in his chest. He was completely unprepared for this kind of thing, and for the first time he needed to be.

He should really build a room for this kind of thing. He had enough spare, after all.

* * *

><p>Dean didn't think he'd ever wanted to kill something as much as he did right now.<p>

Watching Sam break down, sobbing and pleading one minute and then fighting and scratching the next – it turned Dean's big brother senses all the way up. "_Please_, Dean," Sam said again, and it was killing Dean to see Sam like this, so desperate, so broken, "I need it." He tugged again, trying to free his wrists, but Dean held fast.

Sam looked right at him, then, and Dean felt his chest tighten at the sheer desolation on Sam's face, a fierce wave of protective anger crashing down on him. He wanted to go out there and kill the thing that had done this to his brave, strong little brother, wanted to cause it as much pain as it had caused Sam, but he couldn't. Couldn't, because Sam had already sent the thing back to Hell and that was probably a good thing but Dean didn't think so right now, just needed to _hurt_ something.

And then he looked back at Sam and the anger slipped away, just like that, because none of it mattered. Nothing else mattered now, nothing except Sam. Just Sam. Sammy, who was staring at him with terror and desperation and the underlying plea of_ Dean, make it better_, and Dean wrapped the kid in his arms, held fast even as Sam struggled. Resting his chin on top of the dark, floppy hair, Dean murmured, "You don't need it, Sam, I swear. You're gonna be fine. No more demon blood, okay? I know that's what you want, dude."

Eventually, Sam slumped against Dean, still whimpering softly – in pain or misery or a mixture of both, Dean wasn't sure – and Dean thought that maybe this was even worse than having Sam fight him. Sam sounded like he'd given up. Still, he ran his hand through the kid's hair, feeling the warmth of fever radiating from his skin, and cupped the back of his head. Sam buried his head into Dean's chest and Dean looked over Sam's head to see Dad and Bobby standing in the room, looking anxious.

He knew it was bad if Dad looked worried. He had known it was bad anyway, of course, but knowing Dad thought so too made it so much worse. "Sammy's got a fever," he announced into the silence. Dad nodded grimly.

"There's some Tylenol in the bathroom," Bobby said. Dean already knew that. They had been here time and time again, and there was that one time when Sammy was ten and he was sick and they had to stop at at Bobby's because it was so bad and Dean had been let in on the treasure trove that was Bobby's medicine cabinet.

Dad swallowed suddenly. "I'm gonna go unload the car," he said gruffly and strode off before anyone could stop him. Dean watched him go, feeling absurdly hurt by the action. He had thought that just this once, John would stick around, would be a dad. To him _and_ Sam.

He still might, though. He was just going to unload the car. That was all. Still, Bobby didn't look pleased and headed off after him with one last glance at Sam and Dean, a frown creasing his brow. That left Dean to fetch the Tylenol and much as he didn't want to leave Sam, they did need that medicine. A Sam who was suffering from withdrawal was bad, but a feverish Sam who was suffering from withdrawal was even worse.

"I'll be right back, Sammy," he muttered into his brother's hair, carefully lowering Sam so that he was lying on the sofa before bolting up the stairs two at a time towards the bathroom. He didn't want to leave Sam alone for any longer than necessary.

* * *

><p>They were at Bobby's now. That much had registered with Sam, but nothing beyond that. All he was aware of was the pressing need for demon blood and the equally pressing presence of Dean. Dean wouldn't leave him. But Sam had to leave Dean, had to get blood, had to satisfy the beast inside him that craved it, starved for it. There was a hollow ache inside of him, painful and desperate, and it had to be filled. And there was only one thing that would do that.<p>

Dean wasn't here now, though. Dean was gone. Sam wasn't sure where. He was suddenly very aware of how hot he felt, but he seemed to be shivering, like his body couldn't make up its mind. He was soaked in sweat but none of that mattered. Dean was gone. Now was his chance.

There was a knife on the table. There were always weapons close to hand at Bobby's, and this particular knife was Dean's. He must have taken it out of his pocket, worried about accidentally stabbing Sam or something. Whatever. Now he could get out of here, he thought as his hand closed around the knife.

"What are you doing, _freak_?"

That was Dean's voice. Grip tightening on the knife, Sam looked up. Dean was standing in the doorway, a sneer twisting his mouth. "What d'you think you're gonna do with that? You sure as hell aren't gonna _fight_ anything with it. Too weak for that." There was cruel amusement dancing in his brother's eyes and this wasn't right. It was enough to distract him from the ache inside him, just for a moment, and then it was back.

"W-what?" It was all he could manage, voice hoarse and croaky and small, like a frightened child's.

"You heard me. You're a freak, and you can't even do that right. A weak, pathetic _freak_." Each word hurt a little more than the last. It made sense, though, that Dean would feel that way. Sam knew he was a let down. First drinking the demon blood, then using the freaky-ass powers that came with it and finally having the nerve to get addicted to it, to make his family waste time trying to get him off the stuff.

"No," he whispered softly. "No, no, no."

"Yes, yes, _yes_, Sammy," grinned Dean, stalking slowly towards him like a triumphant predator playing with its food. He stopped directly in front of Sam. "You're no brother of mine, that's for sure."

"Shut _up_!" Sam burst out, unable to stop himself and feeling his frustration grow as tears welled in his eyes and Dean just laughed.

"Sammy?" Sam swung his head around to see Dean at the bottom of the stairs. He frowned, matching his brother's confused expression. "Who were you talking to?"

Sam opened his mouth and closed it again, confused and tired and scared and _hungry_, so hungry. He didn't know what he was seeing any more. "I... no one."

Dean nodded, clearly not convinced, but waved the bottle of Tylenol in his face. "Took me a while to find this," he told Sam as he sank down next to him on the sofa. Sam recognised his words for what they were – a distraction technique, one Dean had used since they were kids. "I swear, Bobby's got an entire hospital inside that thing."

There was a click as Dean pulled the cap from the bottle and tipped two pills out into the palm of his hand. They were passed to Sam along with a glass of water – and when had Dean managed to get that? - and Sam swallowed them down, not really understanding why he was taking them but hoping they would help with the pain and desperation.

The pain and desperation remained and Sam found himself pulling the knife on Dean suddenly, the blade pointed at his throat but Sam was weak and exhausted and Dean managed to disarm him with ease, looking freaked and guilty even as he did so. Sam didn't want to hurt Dean. He knew he didn't. "M'sorry," he mumbled as Dean pulled him against his chest again, probably more to stop Sam fighting than to give Sam any undeserved comfort.

"S'okay, dude," Dean whispered and Sam felt himself drifting off into an uncomfortable sleep – from the pills or just sheer exhaustion, he wasn't sure.

The last words that entered his mind before he fell asleep were _weak, pathetic freak._


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Okay, so there's still another chapter to come after this, but it probably won't be very long. I still have one more twist in this chapter (well, I hope you didn't see this coming, anyway :P) so here it is! I hope you enjoy and don't forget to let me know what you think :)**

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><p>"John, this ain't workin'."<p>

Bobby's voice drifted into the living room, working its way through the cracks in the kitchen door. Dad and Bobby thought they were having a private conversation, and Dean wasn't about to shatter that little illusion – not while there was still stuff he needed to know.

"The hell d'you mean?" For all of his secretive behaviour, keeping his sons on a solely need-to-know basis, John wasn't very good at keeping his voice down. Bobby obviously thought so too, because he sounded annoyed when he next spoke.

"_This_, John." There was a pause before Bobby sighed. His tone was softer this time. "The whole cold turkey thing. Surely ya can see it's not doin' Sam any good?"

That, at least, was true. Dean sighed and shifted on the couch. Sam was slumped against him, a frown fixed to his pale face. He had woken up at one point. There had been shaking and sobbing and fighting and eventually Dad had pulled out the sleeping pills and even Dean had had to admit it was for the best. He could only hope they hadn't trapped Sam in a nightmare of some kind. That had happened before, once. Never again.

Still, Dean didn't like where Bobby was going with this. What else could they do?

"What else can we do, Bobby?" Apparently John and Dean were on the same page here. That made a change, when it came to Sam. As if to make sure he was still there, Dean ran a hand gently through his little brother's hair, the warmth of fever brushing against his fingers. Sam didn't move. He was completely out of it, which was probably for the best.

Bobby huffed. "I dunno. I'm just sayin' – if he doesn't get blood, he might not get through this."

"We're not gonna give him blood!" snapped John, completely forgetting to keep his voice down by this point. Dean would have gone in there and told Bobby that himself if he didn't have a certain little brother keeping him pressed down onto the sofa.

"I'm not sayin' we should."

"Then what are you saying?" John's voice was clipped, harsh. The conversation was obviously nearing its end.

There was another pause. "Sam's body needs that blood," Bobby said at last, carefully. "I don't like it any more than you do, but it's the truth." Another pause. Dean could almost see Bobby, fidgeting with his hat and looking equal parts worried and irritated.

Silence reigned for a long time after that. Dean had no idea what was going on and with his reluctance to leave Sam, he had no way to find out either. Eventually there was the sound of the door opening and Bobby stepped out into the room. Neither of them spoke.

Then, finally, "I'm guessin' you heard that?"

Dean forced his mouth into something vaguely resembling a wry smile. "Yeah." He looked down at Sam and felt his heart twist in his chest. Sam didn't deserve this. If there was anybody who deserved this, it just wasn't Sam. Sam was a good kid and as soon as he was better, they were going to kick this demon's ass. Together. Because nobody messed with the Winchesters.

Bobby sank down into a sad-looking armchair and adjusted his hat.

"Where's Dad?" Dean asked, shifting so that he was a little more upright. Sam moaned in his sleep, face screwed up in pain or misery or something else that Dean couldn't identify. He burrowed impossibly closer to his big brother and Dean tightened his arm around him, suddenly glad for the contact.

Sighing heavily, Bobby replied, "Out."

Dean froze. "Out where?" Their dad hadn't left, surely, not now, not right when they needed him the most.

"Hell if I know, boy," Bobby answered gruffly, an obvious cover for his worry. "I just hope he ain't gone to do something stupid."

Dean rested his chin on top of Sam's head and hoped fervently that John would come back soon.

* * *

><p>He didn't know what to do.<p>

They couldn't carry on like this, that was for sure. But did they really have any other alternative? Sighing, John glanced down at the book clutched in his hands. The cover was worn and the pages yellowed with age, but it contained everything he needed.

If he did this, they could make Sam okay again. Because Sam wasn't okay. John wasn't an idiot, he knew his son might not get through this. Dean was doing everything he could, but it wasn't enough. As much as he hated leaving his sons to it, John knew this was the right thing to do. Dean was a better parent to Sam than he had ever been (and maybe it was too late to fix that, John didn't know) but he could do this much for them. He could fix Sam.

He sighed again. The book was burning against his skin, calling to him. It would be so easy. It was a simple ritual. Everything it required was sitting innocently in the trunk of the Impala, just regular everyday things – well, everyday for a hunter, anyway.

John flipped the book over. He opened it. Closed it. Opened it again and scrubbed a hand down his face. There was no guarantee that this would work. Oh, the ritual would work, but there was no guarantee that it would fix Sam.

Because this book contained a summoning ritual.

For demons.

He could summon Yellow-Eyes. If he did it right, made sure the thing was kept contained, kept an exorcism close at hand, he could force it to fix what it had done to Sam. John didn't doubt it could be done, with the powers that Yellow-Eyes possessed. It was just a matter of making the demon conform.

Looking down at the Latin scrawled across the pages, John heaved another sigh. He was out in the salvage yard, sitting on the rusted carcass of one of the many cars. He knew he shouldn't be out here. He should be inside with Sam and Dean, making sure they were both okay.

They weren't, though. Of course they weren't. John wasn't, either – they were all a mess, but at least they were still together. That was the important thing. John knew that. It wouldn't be right to leave.

He pushed himself off of the car and headed out towards town anyway, determined to make things right.

* * *

><p>John Winchester was the biggest idiot Bobby knew. He was a stubborn, pig-headed <em>idjit<em>, but he wouldn't be a Winchester if he didn't have a major malfunction.

Still, Bobby had hoped that John would stick around this time, be the father instead of just the hunter. Apparently their little talk in the kitchen hadn't had a good effect on the younger man. Bobby just hoped John was still actually in the salvage yard, as opposed to somewhere in town.

Right on cue, the sound of footsteps outside alerted Bobby to someone's presence. They were quiet and if the house hadn't been as silent as it was, Bobby wouldn't have heard them at all. Grabbing his shotgun, Bobby made for the front door – he knew it was probably John, but it never hurt to be cautious.

Sure enough, it was John, heading down the dusty path through the gates and into town. Bobby closed the door quietly behind him, not wanting to alert the boys to any kind of problem and then started after John. The man had his head down, shoulders slumped in defeat, a violent contrast to his determined stride.

Catching up easily, Bobby grabbed John's shoulder and pulled the man round to face him. "What the hell are ya doin', John?" he demanded, brandishing the shotgun he would never use.

John looked surprised, then angry, then resigned. He heaved out a sigh. "I'm fixing this," he said, waving a hand in a way that was obviously meant to encompass the whole situation.

"How is leaving fixing this?" hissed Bobby, keeping his voice down so that Dean wouldn't hear and come to find out what was going on. John had obviously picked up on this because when he next spoke, his voice was just as low as Bobby's.

"I'm not leaving."

"Then what are you doin'?" Even to his own ears, Bobby did not sound pleased which was fitting because he definitely wasn't. He knew John Winchester was an ass, but running out on his boys at a time like this? That just didn't make sense. John _cared_ about Sam and Dean, even if he didn't always know how to show it.

There was a silence during which John looked hesitant, shifting a little like he wasn't sure whether he should make a break for it or not. Finally, he deflated and reached into the pocket of his jacket for something and pulled out a small, battered book that Bobby recognised as one of his own. Suspicious already, he took the book from John and flipped it open.

After just a few seconds of reading, it was clear what this was. A summoning ritual.

"What the _hell_," Bobby began in a carefully controlled voice, "are you doing with this?" It was taking all of his self-control not to beat some sense into the eldest Winchester, for all the good it would do. John had done some dumb shit over the years but this, this topped them all.

"I'm doing the right thing, Bobby," John replied heatedly, and there was the John Winchester he knew so well, righteous anger and all.

Bobby gaped at him, nonplussed. "_How_, exactly?"

John snatched the book back. "If I can summon this demon, I can make it fix Sam."

That was quite possibly the craziest damn idea that Bobby had ever heard. This demon wouldn't fix Sam; it was the one that had messed him up in the first place. He said as much to John, whose only response was a subtle tightening of his jaw. That was all Bobby needed to see. It was obvious that John had made up his mind.

"Alright," Bobby sighed. "If we're doin' this, we're gonna do it right." He grabbed the book from John's hands and started towards the trunk of the Impala. "You got everything we need, right?"

"Yeah." John was keeping pace with Bobby and he unlocked the trunk, grabbing one of the bags that Bobby knew contained most of their equipment for fighting the supernatural – aside from guns, that is. "Why are you doing this?"

Bobby hunched a shoulder, slamming the lid of the trunk down and heading back towards the trunk. "'Cause I'm damn sure you'll do it anyway. At least this way I'm around to make sure ya don't do anything stupid."

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, they were all set.<p>

Candles were lit, a devil's trap was drawn and all manner of strange herbs were laid out on a table in the back of Bobby's house. Dean was still with Sam. Both of them had been sleeping when Bobby glanced in, which he supposed made sense. They were exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Sam looked troubled even in sleep, but at least Dean seemed to be getting some rest. They'd need it, especially if this damn ritual didn't work.

"Alright," John said. "Let's do this." He was holding the book so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Bobby was armed with holy water and an exorcism. Ideally, they would have had the Colt but Bobby had stopped researching its whereabouts when the Winchesters showed up and so they didn't have it. Some day, maybe.

Gritting his teeth, Bobby nodded. He didn't like this. He had a bad feeling about this. But it was either helping John, or letting him do it on his own and get his stupid ass killed.

John started to read out the Latin, his voice calm and clear and confident – not a trace of the uncertainty Bobby had seen earlier in the kitchen. There was no sign that the summoning was working until John had read it all. They looked up and there, standing in the devil's trap, was a dark-haired young girl – about twenty years old with eyes that were distinctly not yellow.

John glanced at Bobby and for a moment there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes before he turned back to the girl. "Who are you?"

The girl sighed. She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, they were nothing but pools of black.

Oh, yeah. She was a demon alright. But that didn't answer anything.

Apparently she wasn't finished yet, though. "Azazel sent me," the demon declared. "I'm Meg."

John eyed her cautiously. "Azazel?"

Her tone was condescending when she next spoke. "The guy with the yellow eyes. Ring any bells?"

Huh. So the son-of-a-bitch had a name. Figured. "Why did he send you?" Bobby demanded, gripping his spray-bottle of holy water tightly. "And how'd he manage it? That summonin' was for him."

There was a smirk on the girl's lips now, like she was enjoying this game of Twenty Questions. At least someone was. "That summoning ritual of yours? It's not exactly precise," she informed them. "It doesn't limit itself to one demon. They can choose any member of their family" – John and Bobby exchanged incredulous looks – "to take their place." Another smirk. "So Daddy sent me."

"That son-of-a-bitch is your dad?" Bobby couldn't quite keep the disbelief out of his tone.

"Oh, yeah. We're _real_ close, too." She glanced over at John. "So," she paused for dramatic effect, a typical demon, "what can I do for ya, Johnny?"

John was silent for a moment, obviously reigning in his temper. "Fix Sam." His voice was tense and demanding, leaving no room for argument.

Meg grinned. "I thought you might say that. Thankfully, that's what I'm here for."

"What?" Apparently John was just as surprised as Bobby about this. They hadn't exactly been expecting this to be easy, and here she was, just agreeing.

"What's the catch?" Bobby found himself asking. Meg shrugged almost playfully.

"No catch. It's what Azazel wants. He'd rather Sam didn't die and if I don't help him, he's gonna."

A part of Bobby had known that but it didn't make it any easier to hear. The idea of Sam dying made his heart clench unpleasantly, like someone had tightened their fist around it. Thankfully, he didn't have much time to dwell on it.

"Then fix him." John didn't stop to question why Azazel wanted Sam alive, probably too relieved at the idea of his son being okay again.

Meg smirked. Bobby was really beginning to hate that expression. "Sure thing. Just bring him in here." John tensed immediately. They had been fine with being in the presence of the demon, but bringing Sam in here wasn't part of the plan. Seeing their hesitation, the demon snapped, "Do you want him to live or not?"

Reluctantly, John nodded at Bobby, who nodded his understanding right back. Bobby would stay here and keep an eye on Meg while John went to get Sam.

He really hoped this worked.

* * *

><p>Five minutes later, a groggy Sam had joined Bobby and John in the back room. Dean was in the doorway, watching his little brother like a hawk. John had given minimal explanation and so he didn't have much idea what was going on. He just knew that they were going to try and fix Sam.<p>

A demon hadn't really been on the cards. All Dean wanted to do right now was grab Sam and take him far away from all of this. The poor kid looked terrified and it made his chest tighten, a wave of protective anger crashing down on him. Sam didn't deserve this.

"Alrighty, let's get this show on the road." Meg grinned like she was actually enjoying herself and gestured for Sam to be brought towards her. John's grip on Sam tightened almost imperceptibly before he stepped forward, Sam leaning heavily against him. The sleeping pills had made him sluggish and compliant, no matter how scared he looked. Dean hated it.

Without warning, Meg reached out a hand and pressed her fingertips to Sam's forehead. She started to chant, words Dean didn't understand, and Sam cried out in pain, eyes crinkling.

"What are you doing?" Dean burst out, stepping forward to grab Sam. Bobby stuck out an arm, gently pressing him backwards.

Meg continued chanting, ignoring him. When she had finished, Sam slumped against John, expression blank. "He'll be fine now."

"What did you do?" Dean asked again, his tone a little less furious this time because she might be a demon but if she had fixed Sam, he didn't care.

She shrugged. "A little cleansing spell I picked up somewhere. Are we done here?" Dean didn't answer, stepping forward to help John with Sam. His little brother was clearly unconscious again, but he really did look okay. Maybe he would be fine.

John and Bobby exchanged a nod and as they took Sam into the living room again, Dean heard the beginnings of an exorcism and the demon's pained cries.

He smiled for the first time in days.


	18. Chapter 18

When Sam awoke, it was to find that he was comfortably warm. Not on fire, like he had been earlier, with heat searing through his veins and making him want to tear his skin off just to cool down. No, not like that at all. He was comfortable. He felt... safe.

It probably said a lot about what his life had become that Sam found the feeling strange. Safety had not been on the cards just lately.

He didn't want to move, ever. His muscles felt loose and floppy, unable to move even if he'd wanted them to. Eventually, he managed to coax his eyelids into lifting, and he stared out at the world through bleary eyes.

He was in a bed. A soft bed. That was unusual, for a start. The kind of beds he slept in were usually not soft. Further investigation revealed numerous blankets and several plush pillows. He wriggled around a little and then tried to push himself up on rubbery arms, only managing to fall back down onto the mattress. A snort directed his attention to the side.

"D'n?"

A pair of green eyes stared back at him, amused smile on his brother's face. "Hey, Sammy. You finally wakin' up?"

"Mmffh," Sam responded, too tired to form proper words. Dean just chuckled and Sam felt the mattress dip as Dean sank down onto it, close beside Sam. He squinted around, taking in his surroundings. They were at Bobby's, that much was obvious, but he couldn't figure out much beyond that – like why he was so exhausted, or why he was up here at all when it was obviously the middle of the day.

He tried again to sit up and this time Dean, clearly seeing Sam wasn't going to give up, helped him so that he was slumped against the headboard. Dean swung his legs around so that the brothers were sitting together, shoulder-to-shoulder.

"D'n," Sam said again, trying to dislodge the cotton wool that was clogging his brain up. "Wh't happen'd?"

Dean smiled wryly and wrapped an arm around Sam's shoulders, squeezing him to his side like he was scared to let go. "Demons happened, Sam. You remember the blood thing?"

Oh, yeah. He remembered that. It wasn't the kind of thing you could forget. Ducking his head, Sam nodded. Dean squeezed his shoulder again, a constant tower of support. "Dad and Bobby did this weird-ass summoning thing, tried to get the demon to work its mojo on you – y'know, get the blood outta your system."

Sam opened his mouth to ask if it had worked – it certainly felt like it had, the addiction no longer clawing at his insides – but Dean wasn't finished yet. "Turns out he's got a daughter. She did some ritual or spell or something on you. I don't even know, dude, but you slept for like, a day after." He nudged Sam gently. "Did it work?"

It felt like it. If it weren't for the wool in his head, Sam might have been able to concentrate on things. His stomach was no longer a hollow cave that demanded blood. His body was his own again. It felt good.

"Yeah," he murmured after a moment. "I think so."

"Huh." Dean tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. "So the bitch actually did it right. That's demons for ya. Sometimes they tell the truth, just to mess with your head."

They just sat there for a few moments, content in each other's company. It couldn't last, though. There were still questions that needed to be answered, things that needed to be said, because the last time Sam had seen Dean properly his brother had called him a weak, pathetic freak and Sam wasn't really sure what to do right now. At least he felt a little more awake now. That was something.

Eventually, he asked the simplest question. "Where's Dad?"

Dean shrugged. "With Bobby. I think they're doin' some research."

Another hunt. Of course. Now that Sam was better, they'd be moving on soon. Sam swallowed, trying to bring himself to say what he really wanted to. "Dean?" he asked at last, staring hard at his hands.

Dean turned his head towards Sam. "Yeah?"

He didn't know how to say it. He couldn't back down now, though, or Dean would know something was wrong. Clenching his fists, Sam finally choked out, "Thanks." It wasn't what he'd wanted to say, but it worked. Thanks. For being his brother. For being there. For not leaving him alone, even though he clearly thought he was a weak, pathetic freak.

He didn't _understand_.

Dean seemed to get it, though. He grinned. "You're welcome. Bitch."

"Jerk." The word was hollow and empty. Sam didn't know what else to say. Dean was acting like nothing had happened, like he'd never called Sam a freak, never said he was weak, never said he wasn't his _brother_.

He swallowed again and zeroed in on his hands. He could almost see the demon blood, staining the skin beneath his nails a bright crimson. He'd never even touched the blood, but it felt like it covered every inch of him. No longer in him, it seemed to smother him, made him feel dirty and tainted and freakish.

Sam leaned his head on Dean's shoulder and enjoyed the little bubble of peace while it lasted.

* * *

><p>Dad came upstairs eventually, smiled when he saw Sam was awake. It was a genuine smile like Sam hadn't seen in a long time. Dad didn't often smile at him these days, what with all the fights they had. "You okay, Sam?" It wasn't a personal question, Sam knew. It was about his physical health, and that at least was easy to answer.<p>

"Yeah," he answered softly. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Good." John leaned against the door frame of Bobby's spare room. He looked tall and suddenly Sam felt very small, slumped on the bed directly opposite his dad. "Boys, we need to talk about all of this."

Sam and Dean stared at him.

John actually initialising a meaningful conversation did not happen often.

Almost never, in fact.

John huffed out an unamused laugh and strode into the room. "I know, I know." He sank down onto the bed beside them. "Sam, what did the demon say to you?"

Sam blinked, not expecting that to be the first question out of his dad's mouth. "Um," he said at last. Dean and Dad were both looking at him. Waiting. Waiting to hear what had been said. The words drifted around inside his head, but none of them made it to his mouth.

What was he supposed to say? That the demon had told him how it was his fault their mom was dead? That he was a freak and that Dean and Dad shouldn't care about him?

"It killed Mom," he blurted at last.

Dad looked unsurprised, but Dean's eyes widened almost comically. "What?" In that instant, Sam knew Dean was thinking back to a few weeks ago – back to when Sam had asked Dean whether he was to blame for what had happened to their mother.

It took a while, but the whole story eventually came pouring out. Through stops and starts and shaky breaths. John and Dean just sat, listening to Sam as he told them. Everything the demon had said. Everything that had happened. Even how he had made a deal, willingly drank the blood.

They were silent through it all, until Sam got to the part about Dean, calling him a weak, pathetic freak. He hadn't even meant to say it. It had just slipped out.

"Wait, what?" Dean was staring at him like he couldn't comprehend what Sam had just said. "I never said that."

Sam blinked. "But you-"

"I'd never say that, Sam." Dean's eyes were wide, hands on his shoulders. "Never. Maybe... I dunno, maybe it was the demon blood?"

"Yeah." Sam shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe. Whatever. What do we do now, though?"

John scrubbed a hand down his face. "There's this gun. The Colt. Supposedly, it can kill anything. If we find it, we could kill the demon. Finish this." There was a glint in his eyes that Sam hadn't seen in a long time.

A gun that could kill anything? That wasn't possible, surely. "It can kill anything?" he asked doubtfully.

"_Yes_, Sam." John sighed. "The problem is finding it. I mean-"

"John?" Bobby was standing in the doorway now. "I found somethin'."

* * *

><p>So it turned out, they did have a lead on the gun. Several, in fact. That might be a problem.<p>

Dad didn't seem to see it that way. They were going to check them all out, he said, one at a time. The gun wasn't going anywhere. Probably.

And so they were loading the car up again. Back onto the road. Sam might have felt sad about it, except it meant he was safely by his family's side. Where he belonged.

Dean had his arm casually slung around Sam's shoulder as they walked out to the Impala, goodbyes already said. "Sam, dude, talk to me," he said at last, leaning back against the side of the car. "Something's wrong."

Sam shifted anxiously. "I... nothing," he lied. "Nothing's wrong." Except for the whole freak thing. And Dean saying he wasn't his brother.

"_Sam_." The tone brooked no arguments.

"I- I... Did you really not say any of that?" Sam burst out after a moment, looking up at Dean desperately.

"'Course I didn't, Sammy." Dean crouched down a little, hands on Sam's shoulders. "I would never say that. Never. Look, demon blood has some weird side effects, and you had a fever. You were probably seein' things."

That... made sense. Surprisingly. Not a lot had made sense lately, but this did. And Dean wouldn't lie to him. He wouldn't.

"Okay." Sam smiled for the first time in... well, he couldn't remember exactly. A while. It felt strange, but nice too. Like they could finally move on from this. Kill the demon. The end was in sight.

And Sam was scared shitless.

"Ready, boys?" John came striding out of the house, towards the car and his sons. The truck was going to stay at Bobby's and get fixed up. Hopefully the next time they stopped by, Dad would have something that wasn't a pile of crap to drive.

"Ready." The answer came as one, both Sam and Dean speaking at once.

"Great." John opened his door and swung into the driver's seat, Dean slipping into shotgun and Sam sliding into the back, where he sprawled comfortably along the seats. The way they always were. A family. "Let's do this." John started up the Impala and they sped off down the road.

They still had a long way to go. They didn't have the gun, or any idea where the demon was. Sam was still a freak, and terrified at that. He was going to have a lot of nightmares, he was sure.

But he had his family with him. That was enough. For now, everything was okay.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Well, this is it. I hope the ending hasn't disappointed anyone! :) As you can probably tell, I've left it open for a sequel which I will hopefully write at some point. Until then, though, I have lots of other ideas for fics, so stay tuned!**

**Thank you to everyone for reading, and please review one last time!**


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